Empty

Wreaths will be lain

time will pass by

once fervent cries

will soften to sighs

Memories of cherished

thoughts from the past

till arrival in heaven

reunited at last

If our paths

lead not the same way

I’ll cherish the time

we’ve had here each day

Wherever you go

wherever you be

here in my heart

with me you’ll still be

The electrician finally found the problem. He fixed it. The generator sprang to life. The schools lights popped back on. School administrators made their way down the school corridors. They popped their heads into each classroom. All was well. Most classrooms had used the time to tell stories or play games to help pass the time. When they reached Mrs. Finley’s classroom door, the door was locked. The custodian jingled his huge key ring. He found the master key for the classrooms. He unlocked the classroom door.

They were met with a burst of wind as they pushed the classroom door open. It made them all wince. They stood frozen in shock in the doorway as they witnessed the scene inside the classroom. Red paint covered the ceiling. The red paint was running down the classroom walls where it was pooling on the floor. One locker door, in the row of classroom lockers hung open. It had a broken mirror on it. The students desks had all been smashed down into splinters. A pair of white high heel shoes, covered in red paint, sat on the teachers desk. Rain poured into the classroom through the broken windows next to the teachers desk. The incoming rain mixed with the pool of red paint on the floor. Fierce winds rushed in through the broken windows. Odd papers and debris swirled about in the air. Nobody was there. They were all gone.

Another custodian appeared carrying several sheets of plywood. As he was about to place the plywood over the broken windows, he noticed what looked like huge footprints in the mud outside leading away. It must be nothing he thought to himself. He nailed the wood in place over the broken windows. Fixed in place, the plywood blocked the wind and rain from entering the classroom. The administrators stood silently in shock. The room had been destroyed. The furniture, the desks, all except for Mrs. Finleys, were now just splintered pieces of twisted wood lying on the floor. They soon discovered that it was not red paint on the ceiling, walls, and pooling on the floor. It was blood. It was a lot of blood. It was more blood than any of them had ever seen. In revered silence, one by one, they turned to leave Mrs. Finley’s classroom. As they left the classroom, each said a silent prayer.

They checked in with the surrounding classrooms. Mrs. Finley, nor any of her students, were in any of the other classrooms. They had hoped that at some point during the storm Mrs. Finley’s students had sought shelter in the surrounding classrooms. They had not. They thought that maybe when the windows broke in their classroom that the students had run to other parts of the school building for safety. They had not. The adjoining classrooms said they heard terrible noises coming from Mrs. Finley’s classroom during the peak of the storm. Nobody knew what caused those terrible noises from her classroom.

A teacher in a classroom next to Mrs. Finley said she had tried to check on Mrs. Finley’s class when they heard all the noise but the Mrs. Finley’s classroom door was locked. The teacher said it looked like the students had painted the inside of the window on the door with red paint. She couldn’t see through it. She couldn’t get into the classroom to check on them. All they did know afterwards was that all the children from Mrs. Finley’s class were gone. All of them. Every single one of them. Gone without a trace. Mrs. Finley was gone too. Only her shoes remained. Only her white blood stained shoes remained sitting silently on her desk top. They’ve never found any of those children. Not one of them.

Some say a tornado must have struck the school that day. A tornado must have slammed into the school, breaking Mrs. Finley’s classroom window, they say. The force of the tornado’s cyclonic winds must have sucked all of the children out through the broken window to carry them off to places unknown. The tornado must have taken Mrs. Finley too. That is a very reasonable, logical explanation. Tornados can exert terrific forces. Tornados can tear asphalt right up from roads. They can destroy homes, barns, most anything they strike. While all that is very true, it doesn’t explain one thing. Why were Mrs. Finleys white shoes, covered in blood, left sitting silently, undisturbed on her desk. They were right next to the broken window. That didn't make sense. Those shoes sat like a memorial to some horrific event. An event that everyone will always grieve over but nobody will ever truly understand.

At a news conference the following week, in the schools assembly hall, the school superintendent addressed the gathering.

“If Father Sky sent down a tornado that day, we may never know. Where the children went, we may never know. Where Mrs. Finley went, we may never know. We can only hope, that wherever they are, they are all together, in a better place, somewhere over the rainbow. Hopefully, one day, we will all join together with them. I look forward to that day. I hope it arrives soon. Until then.”

There on that podium, the superintendent placed Mrs. Finleys white shoes for all to see. It was the only thing that was left from that horrible day.

Locked within a glass case at the schools entrance, Mrs. Finley’s shoes now memorialize the class that was lost on that terrible day. Every year, on the anniversary of that terrible day, all the school children all gather on the lawn outside Mrs. Finleys classroom. They all bow their heads in a moment of revered silence. Then they all begin to softly sing The Streets of Laredo.

Nobody knows why they sing that particular song. But they do, every year.