In the Glow of Our Afternoons

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

There were once Korean children
who ran into my life
like sun into windows—
all feet, all laughter,
all vowels bright as mango light.

They called me teacher,
but really—
I was the one learning.
How to tie their laces
with a soft voice.
How to read their silences
between snack breaks.
How to hold their joy
like a bowl of warm rice,
never letting it spill.

We folded paper cranes,
we recited poems about stars
as if they lived in our palms.
We danced to songs
in languages none of us owned,
but all of us sang
as if the melody
could unmake loneliness.
They taught me the soft c’s of Korean love.
I gave them the rough edges
of English,
rubbed smooth
in the glow of our afternoons.

And now,
I cannot remember
what year it was—
only that they were mine,
and I was theirs,
and we thought that was forever.

But forever has its faults.
I have amnesia now,
or some version of it—
my mind a curtain
half-pulled.
I know they existed,
but their names
slip from my hands
like soap.
I reach for them in sleep
and wake
with only shadows—
the sound of a child’s giggle
dissolving
before I catch it.

Were they real?
Or is my mind
so desperate for comfort
that it’s carved
children out of fog?

I still set the chairs
in a semicircle.
Still hum the tune
they used to sing
when the bell rang.
Still check
for handprints
on the windowpane
as if memory
could leave fingerprints.

If you find them—
tell them
I remember
how they made me feel,
even if I no longer
remember
their faces.

Tell them
I still love
what they left
in me.