Ciggarates and Moonlight

Mrs Byron

Mrs Byrons classroom was always full of warmth. Yellow lights hung from the ceiling, dowsing everything that entered their light in soft glow.
The walls were covered in hessian displays, with gorgeous handwritten posters pinned to them. Dark oak bookcases crowded one wall, and they were stuffed with so many books that some shelves were double stacked. There sat her favourites, classics like The Secret History, and The Picture Of Dorian Grey. Childhood memories sat amongst them, including Harry Potter, and an old, battered copy of Finding Nemo, a personalised copy given to her by her late mother on her fourth Christmas. Atop the bookshelves were broken clocks, awards, and stone figurines, all gathering dust.

The class desks matched the bookshelves, but they were all etched with names and vulgarities from years ago. Her own desk wasn't any better, not because anyone had been cruel enough to to damage her desk, but because it was filled with clutter. Pen pots, an old, ticking clock, stacks of brown notebooks, rouge sheets of paper, and swirled glass orb paperweight. The only empty space was a rectangle in the middle, that was filled during class with her laptop. A weathered wheelie chair sat behind the mountain her desk had become, and was adorned with a brown tartan blanket, and a soft cream pillow with "Mum" stitched onto it in white, given to her by her young daughter. On on of the drawers of her desk, at about knee height, was a sellotaped photograph of herself and her daughter in a warm embrace.

Everyone liked Mrs Byron, she smelled of tea and lemon, and gave fudge to students who answered her questions correctly. She was the kind of teacher you could rely on, whether you needed a heart to heart, or a laugh. She told cracking jokes, and once scolded the headteacher for interrupting her lesson with no good reason. That was a good day.

I'll miss those lessons, sleepy in the sun drifting through the window, dramatic readings of Shakespeare from my classmates, sweet buttery fudge melting in our mouths. The buzz of bees outside the window, and way she laughed during our conversations. I'll never forget dear Mrs Byron.