That Age

Deena's daughter came in at nine,

worksheets spread on the laminate,

backpack dropped by the break room door.

Thirteen, maybe. Just.

Chewing the end of a pen cap,

staring at the same page.

I went past. Came back for coffee.

Went past again.

There's something about that age

I can't look at straight on —

not her specifically,

just the year, the particular weight of it,

what I know a person that age

is capable of doing.

I know what I did.

I know the room.

I know whose face I chose

not to look at after,

and why.

She didn't see me at the copy machine.

The pencil rolled to the edge of the table

and stopped just before it fell.

She went back to her worksheet.

I went back to my desk

and the thing came with me,

the way it does —

not loud. Just there.