Two summers ago she came to help
me sort through stuff in the garage,
taking careful inventory of decades-
old plastic bottles of bubbles,

testing them, one bottle at a time,
sitting on my deck, blowing bubbles.
On hot days, I still see her there.
Now a reporter in Texas, she moseys

back to her hometown to touch base,
see her people, reconnect with those
who mean much to her. I am one
of those, she kindly tells me each

time she sees me, this stellar former
student of mine, one of my last,
dealt some rough hands—among
them being a student journalist in

the early months of the pandemic,
the world locked down, learning
to report remotely. Good training,
she says now, covering business

and agriculture in San Antonio.
Though I watched so many students
fumble through their early days
as writers, poets, photographers,

journalists, designers, editors,
now they circulate through me
in a sweet blur, their faces
popping up now and then,

the particulars long gone
of what they did or didn’t do,
how well they succeeded or
didn’t. And then one shows up

full of gratitude and generosity,
along with mint-green tea,
and we sit in the back yard
on a sultry July afternoon

as I quiz her, fascinated, saying,
“Tell me what it’s like on your
newspaper these days. Tell me
what it is to be you.”

And she does.