Mike A.

The first-grade class

marched down to the library

in a single file.

We were warned to

keep quiet

as we made our way

down the sidewalk

past the classrooms.

It was my first trip

to a school library.

Our assignment was

fairly simple:

find a book

and check it out.

As instructed

I took my book

to the lady stationed

at the center of the room.

She patiently guided me

to the back of the book

and pointed out where

to write my name

on the card

within the envelope.

So I happily wrote

“Mike A.”

and handed it back to her.

When she went to stamp it,

her helpful expression

turned into a look of irritation.

She wanted to know

why I had not written

my last name.

I explained to her

that I didn’t know how!

The librarian quickly

brought me up to speed

on library policy.

Grudgingly,

she stamped the card

and demanded

that I return the book back

no later than the date indicated.

Before learning to spell my name,

I nervously checked out

one more book

as “Mike A.”

I suspected she remembered me

and spared me the lecture and the look.

She probably resigned herself

that she was looking

into the eyes of a dimwit.

After learning

to spell my name,

this bookworm

transformed

into a butterfly

fluttering freely

about the library,

no longer afraid

to check out a book.

Mike A. no longer existed.

Years later,

when my son came into the world,

I was determined

to teach him

at a very early age

how to spell his first

and last name,

thanks in large part to Mike A.