Fourth Grade

I have very few memories of my year in the fourth grade, about forty five years ago, but one has returned vividly in the last few years.

M was petite and pretty, with olive skin and pearly teeth, her fair hair held back from her face with a clip. A lively little eight year old with a bright smile and skinny legs in a school uniform.

She wasn’t my special friend but we all loved her in our childish way.

One day as we went out for play time things just weren’t right.

M sat at the back of the room, and as we filed past her desk she hadn’t gone out, and was crying. Under her desk was a puddle. She had wet herself and was sobbing with shame.

In hushed tones Mr A saw us out of the room and closed the door.

When we came back, M was gone, and I don’t remember seeing her again.

In the innocence of youth, the incident meant so little. The class was large and children were away from time to time, or left. We had no expectation or need of explanations, so many things we didn’t understand, so many things to discover, and memories faded quickly.

In later life the horrible realisation that Mary may have been abused, raped or molested haunts me. I feel her pain and shame, and see the despair that was in her face as I walked past her desk.

I just don’t know what to think of it, I wish I could offer some comfort.