I will never forget four years ago today, on March 13, 2020. I was teaching junior high, and earlier that week, the administration told the teachers the school might close down for an extra week after Spring Break. Some students had started wearing masks that week, but I didn’t hassle them. There were a lot of questions from my students, but I didn’t have any answers. Our teachers’ meetings were canceled that week so we could get work organized to send home with our students for the two weeks of Spring Break they would have.

Ironically, that last day was Friday the thirteenth, and more than a few students were missing from each of my classes; there was a palatable tension in the air. I taught each class period as calmly as possible, leaving plenty of time to discuss questions and concerns from students who were wondering what was happening, why it was happening, and how serious it was. I didn’t have answers. I could only listen and try to help them feel some peace, even though I was filled with anxiety.

At the end of the day, the students left, their arms loaded with textbooks and packets to keep them occupied for the next two weeks. As they walked out the door, they said they’d see me in a few weeks, and I told them to enjoy their extra week of Spring Break. But that never happened. I didn’t see them again. The two weeks turned into two months, then a year, and finally, 730 days later, we all returned to our “normal” lives. But we are changed. We are more wary with others and more deliberate with our goodbyes.