Ghosting Here
The polished brass of the low-hanging candelabra cast a dull, romantic glow over the conference. I could only see humor in this; it matched the setting I'd fantasized for a romantic dinner with him years before.
He's still an enchanting speaker; emphatic, vibrant, with eyes that shine bright as his lips form the most just of sentences. He's been an educational reformer for ten years, something I only learned by picking up the syllabus to the lecture.
I take in every single word that tumbles free from his lips, as though I'm still a little girl hearing the tragic denouement of Charlotte's Web at his knee. And still, I try to play it cool; hanging back, waiting until the others have come forward to congratulate him upon his brilliant work.
His eyes widen slightly when they see me; self-consciously, I tug at my hair. I'd worn it combed down, at Thelonious' suggestion.
"Lisa Simpson." He whispered.
"I didn't think you'd remember me." I giggled. D'oh!
"One doesn't forget one of the most passionate students you've had the privilege to teach." He clutched his ledger to his chest, wonder in his eyes. "How have you been? How is your family?"
"Everyone's fine. I'm...fine."
"Lisa, I know your vocabulary's bigger than that. Don't feel the need to dumb it down around me."
I blushed. "Oh, well, I was just testing you." Another lame giggle bubbles over inside of myself.
"You're married." He noticed the plain band on my finger.
"For five years now. His name's Thelonious, we teach at the same school."
"And you're a teacher." His tone allowed me a bit of self-flattery. He sounded near tears as he added. "Lisa, that is the greatest credit you could have paid to me as an educator."
"It was your doing." I began. "You see, without your great influence, I would never have submitted to the mindless drudgery that Miss Hoover made school seem."
"Pity Miss Hoover; she tried as hard as she could. The Springfield school system was the pits when you were coming up."
"It still is. We have to fight for every dollar we get." I realized that I had fallen into a natural banter with my old crush. Gradually, as we spoke of art and learning, of my children, of my brother's grades at law school, we fell into a comfortable patter. He revealed to me that he remained unmarried, something that surprised me. The layers of childish romantic yearning fell away, and I became a concerned colleague, worrying for his health. I show him pictures of my children and a small, fond smile slips across his mouth, as though seeing some ghost of myself in their tiny faces.
"Look at the time," he admonished. "I've got to be going." He took the time to gaze at me soulfully. "Lisa, I want you to know I'm proud of you. But for all the credit you give me, you have to credit yourself for doing the work, and for giving a damn."
"And my family." He rose an eyebrow. "You saw the worst of my father that day." I said. "Without Homer and my mother, I don't know if I'd have lived through being mocked every day at school."
He smiled. "I had hoped that he was a little less...primitive."
"He has a good heart, as many times as it's been patched."
He scribbled something down on a faded, bright pink flyer. "I want to give you something..."
"That's not necessary; I still have what you wrote for me," I started to say.
"Lisa, I'm giving you my email."
"Oh!" That damnable blush again!
"Now, promise me you won't let another eighteen years go by before writing to me!"
"Never!" I held out my hand. "I composed something recently, and I need a judicious ear to tell me if I'm far afield."
"And I'll be that ear." He shrugged back into his faded tweed jacket. "I'll be seeing you."
Between the second it took for him to slip out the door and the minute it took for me to formulate a reply, I mused upon the smile upon my face. The passionate, unachievable, girlish love I once held for that man, thankfully, has faded to the sweet, warm affection of a girl for an old friend.
And yet, I gush and grin and blush and cannot find the words to show him the depth of inspirational love he bestowed to me. I suppose, upon further analysis, that I still have a little crush on Mister Bergstrom. Not the sort that would make me leave my husband and children, follow him across the burning sands of time and trial. The kind that sends a secretive thrill across the skin, like a child stealing a piece of candy from a communal plate.
Thelonious once told me that he felt the same way about his first chemistry teacher. She inspired him to rise like a flame over the cracked wood and burning cinder of his limitations. And so had his own personal Mister Bergstrom, and should we all.
"Goodbye." I said to the empty room.