My (Father’s) Nose

Celina Williams

If the stars could grant me a do-over I would become the Star Pupil on the day the teacher drew a nose with chalk on the board because he said our witchy half-triangle noses were unrealistic and, expecting a ‘no,’ he asked one of the Melissas if her nose looked at all like a beak, but she said, ‘yes,’ and the other three— they giggled, and we all laughed when someone oinked at his drawing, and then we all oinked and yelled, ‘here piggy,’ loud then louder until I didn’t know whether we were yelling at the chalk-nose or at Mr. Art Teacher,

who looked like crumpled construction paper brick red, showing his weakness, he couldn’t even glare should a tear fall, so he must’ve decided to retire at that moment because I never saw him again, and I wanted to tell him that was the first nose I ever saw that resembled mine, and now I can’t stop drawing it in my margins.