I scanned the list of classroom assignments posted on the wall outside the adult education office.  Fast, Loose, Free: A Creative Nonfiction Writing Workshop-Saturday-Room 236.  A sigh of relief escaped as I checked my watch. 9:30 A.M.  I found the school, building, and entrance with half an hour to spare.  Even the "no parking" signs referred to weekdays, allowing me to pull into a convenient space beside the high school pool. Maybe it was the sight of that pool that began stirring up the memories.

Spotting the staircase leading to the second floor, I walk up one flight.  The silence of a wide empty corridor greets me.  Double rows of lockers remain securely closed behind combination locks.  I could only imagine the voices, the laughter, and the students rushing to classes.  But that wasn't what I am imagining as I begin heading past closed classroom doors.  I'm back in the 1960's, more than 40 years ago, and my eyes search for him, find him, the curly haired teenager with hazel eyes reflecting a warm smile.  Wearing tan slacks, a white cotton button down collar shirt, and brown penny loafers, he is dressed to fit in, not to stand out.  I feel as if he is trying to tell me something.

The sound of heels clicking on the tile floor pulls me back to the present.  "Do you know where room 238 is, screen play writing? comes a voice belonging to the clicking heels belonging to a tall attractive woman. I shake my head.  "This is the first time I've been in this high school.  I'm looking for room 236." We fall into step and conversation and, within a few minutes, we reach our destinations.  Wishing each other a productive day, she enters 'screen writing' while I find a bench outside the locked room 236.  Light pours in through the floor to ceiling window as I wait.  9:45 A. M.  Still early, still no other writing students, still a chance to think back to when time held more future than more past.

I didn't know him in high school.  We wouldn't meet until years later.  Over time, though, I gathered a picture of the boy who would become my husband: quiet, smart, energetic, happy, inquisitive, competitive, athletic. He seemed to have skipped that awkward, adolescent stage. He never mentioned winning a state championship swim meet, only telling me how much he hated diving into cold water.  Some of his peers mistook his confidence for snobbery, but his circle of friends knew better.  Nobody was surprised when he received a nomination to the Naval Academy in his junior year and acceptance a year later.  I could picture his delight at a future that held both challenge and promise.         

A moment or maybe several moments later one women approaches.  "Are you here for the writing course?" she inquires. We begin to chat, our bench filling up with additional students.  The teacher arrives, unlocks the door, and we file into the classroom to begin the writing workshop.

Reluctant to let go of the memories that had accompanied me, I look around at the chairs, the desks, the blackboard, and the bulletin boards. This was his high school and I still have questions to ask that teenage boy. It's been more than a decade since my husband's death, but he gave me a gift that Saturday. He gave me one more day.  I open my notebook and begin to write.

By Diane Snyder

Diane Snyder recently retired from a long career as a pre-kindergarten teacher at the Jewish Community Center in Stoughton.  She now puts all of her energy into writing.