Goodnight Moon

Matt and I returned to our hometown after our first semester in college. We arranged to meet at a bar to catch up and trade stories.

“How’s UVA?” Matt asked, sipping his glass of Shiraz.

“Pretty good,” I replied. “I think I’ll major in physics.” I took a swallow of my beer. “How about you?”

“Yale’s everything I hoped for—and more,” Matt answered, “but I still haven’t settled on a major yet. Philosophy maybe, or comparative lit…”

Our talk continued like that—matter-of-fact at first, then increasingly nostalgic as the wine and beer flowed.

Matt studied me thoughtfully. “We go back a long way, Todd.”

I smiled. “Yep, all the way back to first grade.”

“First grade with… Mrs. Mohrhusen!” Matt laughed. “Oh, how we gave her hell! We were terrors!”

“We sure were,” I agreed. “I’m amazed that she kept her cheery disposition.”

“She was sweet,” Matt said. “She even brought cookies for every holiday.”

I shook my head in wonder. “How do teachers do it?! They all deserve six-figure salaries!”

“With combat pay!” Matt hooted.

We ordered another round of drinks. “You know,” I said, slurping my fresh beer, “I can actually remember all our teachers. Except one. Who taught us in second grade? Do you remember?”

Matt squinted in concentration. “Gosh… wasn’t it… Mr. Allemang?”

I snapped my fingers. “Oh, yeah!” A memory of the kindly bespectacled man flashed in my mind. “He helped me with my science fair project. I put carnations in glasses of food coloring to illustrate capillary action in plants.”

Then I felt another memory knocking on my thoughts. “But wait. Wasn’t he a replacement? Didn’t we start the year with a different teacher?”

Matt ran a finger along the edge of his glass. He stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. At last, he nodded. “Miss Mitch, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, right,” I said, a hazy image of the teacher forming in my thoughts. She was middle-aged. Short black hair. Intense expression. “Didn’t we call her Mitch the Witch?” I asked.

Matt nodded slowly. “I think so,” he reflected. “Wow, I barely remember her. She was our teacher for, what, a few weeks?”

“It wasn’t long,” I agreed. “I wonder what happened to her.”

Matt took a long taste of his wine. “I wonder.”

We sat in silence for a long moment, each of us turning over ancient memories in our thoughts. A feeling of wistfulness washed over me.

Matt pulled a vape from his shirt pocket. He looked around to make sure no one was looking, then took a discreet pull.

He exhaled a small cloud, his eyes gazing into the distance. “Story hour,” he said quietly.

A memory, blurred with age, filled my thoughts. “That’s right,” I said, “Miss Mitch read us stories after lunch. I think I remember. Didn’t she read us Goodnight Moon?”

“I remember that story,” Matt recalled fondly. “My mom used to read it to me all the time when I was little.” He closed his eyes. “Goodnight moon,” he recited, “goodnight bears… goodnight chairs…”

Matt’s words triggered a lucid memory in me. A flashback. All at once, I was transported a decade into the past…

The classroom was a cheerful space. Colorful posters were tacked to the walls—alphabet charts, number lines, inspirational messages… Our little desks were arranged in clusters of four, and held all sorts of creative supplies—pencils and paper, erasers and crayons…

Our reading corner was up front and, sitting on a chair, was Mitch the Witch. We were all seated at her feet as she paged through a worn copy of Goodnight Moon…

“Goodnight stars,” Miss Mitch read, her voice starting strong and clear, but suddenly weakening with each word. “Goodnight… air, goodnight… noises… everywhere…”

She closed the book gently and held it atop her lap.

A heavy silence swallowed the room as she stared into space—her black hair a touch disheveled, her lipstick slightly askew, her hazel eyes glistening…

She opened her mouth to speak.

“Goodnight wine,” she murmured, “goodnight pills…”

Her hands twisted the book in her lap as two dozen seven-year-olds stared at their teacher uncomprehendingly. She whispered two last words: “Goodnight… life.”

Miss Mitch rose slowly. She wiped her tear-streaked face and hurried out of the room, her shoes tapping as they darted across the linoleum floor…

The memory vanished as swiftly as it had appeared.

I gulped the last of my beer.

I no longer wondered what had happened to Miss Mitch.