Looking for your glasses, I have become familiar with the floor of your classroom. Squatting by red and blue shelves, I find Scrabble tiles, mostly E’s, and pencils with broken tips. The room is dusty. I try to imagine what obscure spot would look inviting to a child sniffling because he must practice cursive T, removing his glasses to wipe his eyes and looking for a place to put them down, not knowing how simple it is to forget things, the weighty and the small alike.