Flashes of Inspiration

The Young Dreamer

"James, that doesn't mean anything."

"It means something to me."

A sigh. "James, it has to mean something to everyone else. Otherwise, it's not writing, it's just gibberish."

"But you said poetry doesn't mean the same thing to everyone."

Ms. Lerner shook her head. "Yes— no. I mean, it has to make some kind of sense. Other people have to be able to draw some kind of meaning from it."

James looked curiously at her. She could feel that he wasn't getting what she was saying. She got on her knees, eye-level with him at his desk. "Okay, you know how in math you have a certain way you have to do things?"

"Mr. Alberly said you can do addition in any direction you want."

Ms. Lerner pressed her lips together. "Okay... well... you know how Mr. Alberly makes you show each step in your homework? So he can understand your thinking for how you got that answer?"

"I don't like math."

She sighed again, then decided to cut right to the heart of the issue. "Well then, let's talk about your poem, James. What does it mean to you?" She tried to keep the victorious tone out of her voice.

"It's about a dream I had once."

She considered dropping the conversation. He had written nonsense about something that was nonsense! But she loved to see these children learn, to see the light dawn on them when something suddenly clicked and made sense. "Okay. What was your dream about?"

"I wrote it all down right here, Ms. Lerner." He spoke in the same where's-your-common-sense tone she used herself sometimes.

She sighed again and stood up. "You win, kiddo. Go on out to recess."

At the door, he turned and smiled happily. "But last night I dreamed about a firetruck!"