And it goes on.

One of my very, very special kids- the most talented dancer (save for his brother) and one of the most talented artists I've ever seen, emotionally aware and very sensitive- is also a special education student. He struggles academically, but I think he is classified as special ed mostly for financial reasons.

Everyone from the head special education teacher (who happens to be a warm and wonderful person) to his other teachers to he, himself, believes that art school would be the best place for him. He is, however, still under his mother's thumb. His brother, who has similar talents, is at Morehead. The special ed teacher says his mother has told her about "a training program in Greenville" that she has in mind for him. "That check" she says "pays a bill in my house". Those checks are a curse more than a gift.

It is enough to make me want to hit someone; it's too bad that there is no productive physical reaction to anger. It is difficult for me to imagine anything more evil than seeing him waste himself in a menial job.

I don't know what to do for him. He will graduate tomorrow with a "certificate" and will pursue his GED until January, but there are doubts about whether or not he will be able to pass. It is said that the GED exam is perhaps more difficult than standard graduation.

He gave me an invitation to graduation, with his named en scripted inside. I gave him my phone number and e-mail address.

I'm looking forward, but I'm not sure to what. Nothing will be the same, and everyone will soon go disappearing. I haven't been able to write. I don't know what to say. I miss people that are right next to me. I have yet to find a way to deal with this. I want to ask people to stay with me, to stay in touch, to stay near. As departure creeps closer, my tendency is to want to bring people closer, and theirs is to begin to pull away. I'm always left watching the shadows grow longer, until finally the sun sets- that beautiful Delta sunset, like no other- and this is no longer home.

To the people who have been here, who have sat in a silent room, listening to the heaviness of evening, who have watched spring storms from the porch, who have told stories about problems with no solutions and asked questions with no answers, who have noticed how the honeysuckle complements the stars, who have watched me cry and cried themselves, in small moments of something true...

Well, if I knew what to say, I would have said it already.