As a volunteer at the Queens Public Library, I find stocking shelves the most entertaining. I remember stocking a version of Edna St. Vincent Mulley’s Collected Lyrics, and stumbling upon a line, “Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age.” Looking back, I can attest to this, because when I was thirteen years old, I was heaved out of my own childhood and into the barrenness of adulthood.
It was May of eighth grade; I spent most of my lunchtime with Mr. Malenka, my sixth grade teacher. At the time, I lacked certain abilities that most individuals possessed: primarily compassion and patience. With Malenka’s guidance and paternal reinforcement, I tried to master my shortcomings; all the while he continued to be one of my closest allies. I was writing a story at the time, and eagerly wanted to discuss my characters with Malenka, who enthusiastically agreed. I remember the experience vividly, it was a Friday afternoon and I was anxious, I had invested my entire being into it and for the first time, I was proud of my work. When the final bell rang, I ran eagerly with my story to his classroom with all forty-five pages, printed double-sided, stapled together and secured with a giant paperclip. I held it near to my heart as I entered the…show more content… It wasn’t uncommon for him; he loved teaching in the library. I opened the door without looking out in front of me, excitingly calling out for him. When I passed the first bookcase, I noticed my friends from the sixth grade, leaning over tables, blowing their noses everywhere, and a framed picture of him, but he was nowhere in sight. A close friend of mine, Jason, approached me with a tissue box in his hand. He put his hand on my shoulder before whispering, “He’s dead. Malenka’s dead.” And with that, stormed out of the library, leaving me with the rest of the bunch. I stared at his picture defeated, feeling my chest tighten with
