Rear-View Mirrors

by Paul Fleischman

  I look at my watch and know I’d better go. Slowly making my way downstairs, I feel like the Tin Man and can almost hear my legs creak with every step. I wash and dry my few breakfast dishes. I pull down the blinds. And on my way out, I grab the newspaper I bought yesterday. I lock the front door, padlock the barn, squeeze my fingers through the knothole, and hang the keys back up on their nail. I put on my pack and, heading down the driveway, flip through the paper until I reach the page with the sunrise and sunset times. And decide, as I turn up Hatfield Road, that I’ll hold on to that particular page, which I proceed to tear out, fold up, and tuck in my pocket—the other half of my diploma.

  THE END