The sound of the fishtank makes me have to go to the bathroom. Other than that, the classroom is silent. I shift in my seat because I feel like something’s wrong. No. It really is quiet. Classrooms are never quiet. I pause. I look around. I take a sip of my coffee. My desk is horrific. A bomb may have hit while I wasn’t looking. Papers, rubrics, the coffee cup and yesterday’s spoon. It’s nearly June, and there’s the feeling in the air that says, “Miss, we’re done,” mixed with the tension of “Wait! I need three more weeks to cram this stuff in!” I’ve got end of the year tests, benchmarks, and data stuffed in folders asking for kerosene. There’s a folder of, “I found this in my bag, will you still take it?” to correct. But the world around me is silent, except I can hear there is math going on next door. I sit in my chair a moment. The sound of the fishtank reminds me I still need to use the bathroom before the world descends upon me. I have five more minutes to choose between that and relaxing, contemplating the meaning of life. I decide the meaning of life will have to wait. There are too many other things to accomplish before the bell. But for an instant, the silence and I are one.