I look through the screen. I am there.
In the lab full of computers and outdated chairs.
I can hear Patti in the hallway, cracking a joke. If I stuck my head out the purple door, I might see her and add my own commentary.
Two doors down is a room of rainbows where Carol turns writers into published authors. I can imagine the magical moment happening as they choose the color of their ribbon.
The halls are yellow with scattered murals and paintings done by students. I can see a bulletin board from where I’m sitting, covered in photos from soccer games and track meets.
Below me the heart of my classroom beats. Its colors radiate upwards. With or without students, I can feel their lingering presence, the tune of their songs, the spirit of their excitement.
But in the screen I see myself.
I’m not there.
My own reflection seems far away, inside a room I barely know.
Behind me are brick walls, rows of desks, and a white board we never use.
I can feel the warmth of the sun in the room. It’s not snowing here; another day of spring instead.
Voices of students create noise in the hallway outside the door and one boy stops inside to grab his soccer ball.
Only a screen separates these worlds that feel incredibly close and strangely far apart.