I recall my father’s classroom 

In the palm-shaped halls of Apalachee High School 

The branching and weaving corridors intertwined with each other 

With dingy yellow paint and polyvinyl blue floors 

Emphasized by the glow of institutional lighting, worn thin like a halogen bulb 

Filled with the stench of salt and the grime of generations 

I recall wandering through the labyrinth to the administration office 

In hopes the assistant would share a bitter Necco Wafer with a curious child 

Mistaking the talc-like delicacy for an oversized Smartie 

I recall my father’s promotion and yearning to revisit the environment in which I explored 

Hoping to return as a student, not a visitor 

Proudly displaying the blue and the gold rather than the red and black of my alma mater 

I recall sneaking off “to the restrooms” during a visiting football game during rehearsals 

Stowing away my piccolo under the rocks I used to play on  

Then leaning against the vending machine outside my father’s door 

Escaping just in time to return unnoticed  

Marching whilst gazing at the neighboring artificial mountain 

That grew larger alongside me year after year 

I recall leaving for college and searching for another from my home 

Knowing of someone sharing in my hometown heritage  

But never quite meeting them 

I recall bragging of my alma mater in my design class 

Chatting over a rice bowl at lunch and being met with a chill to my spine 

And the boiling cold rushing over my body reading the headline 

I recall rushing to check my father’s location 

And sobbing on my way to class not knowing what to do 

And my classmate laughing at the concept of a shooting as he watched me weep 

And being scolded for being off topic during lecture 

And returning home, shaking those three long hours 

And hoping that I made the right choice raising that money 

And my father’s close friend stepping down as superintendent 

And my fear of being called back for jury duty 

I recall my professor's classroom 

In the S-shaped halls of Berry College’s Laughlin 

Wandering past the computer lab 

With worn custard colored paint and decaying wooden floors 

Emphasized by aging ceiling lights from a time before mine 

Filled with the jarring discussion of my real tragedy as an example for future journalists.