His eyebrows curl together in perpetual worry, though he is only 6 years old. His wide, black eyes stare up at me and the world.
“Why?” he loves to ask, and only relents when an adequate explanation has been given. Already a critical thinker, and already a troublemaker. I feel sympathy for his future teachers, but I can’t help but love his rebellious ways. He will never be a follower. I want to see where he ends up in twenty years. I don’t doubt he will be great.
It has been almost a year since I started teaching him. I’ve seen his habits develop. His once messy writing has turned neat and precise. He used to finish his work as quickly as he could, and now he takes as much time as he can. He strives for perfection. He hates being rushed. And I want to give him all the time in the world, but the clock’s ticking hands bind my own.
His distinctive laugh has begun to grate the ears. No longer small and cuddly, he has slowly transformed. In less than one year, he will be in elementary school, and his first stage of evolution will be complete. But no matter how much he changes, he will always be my precious student. A curious little candle, being hurtled down a treacherous river. My only hope is that I have helped him build a sturdy enough boat.