What you missed

and containers of time

brinn elizabeth bagley

Feb 02, 2025

What You Missed That Day You Were Absent from Fourth Grade

by Brad Aaron Modlin

Mrs. Nelson explained how to stand still and listen
to the wind, how to find meaning in pumping gas,

how peeling potatoes can be a form of prayer. She took
questions on how not to feel lost in the dark.

After lunch she distributed worksheets
that covered ways to remember your grandfather’s

voice. Then the class discussed falling asleep
without feeling you had forgotten to do something else—

something important—and how to believe
the house you wake in is your home. This prompted

Mrs. Nelson to draw a chalkboard diagram detailing
how to chant the Psalms during cigarette breaks,

and how not to squirm for sound when your own thoughts
are all you hear; also, that you have enough.

The English lesson was that I am
is a complete sentence.

And just before the afternoon bell, she made the math equation
look easy. The one that proves that hundreds of questions,

and feeling cold, and all those nights spent looking
for whatever it was you lost, and one person

add up to something.1

I remember reading this poem for the first time and falling in love with how it manages to be so surprising and poignant, and at the same time, kind of hilarious. I immediately re-read it like five times. Maybe because I’ve spent so much of my life thinking about and being told what we/I need to teach children. How, and why, and when. And how every child, no matter if they’re your own, or show up in your 5th-grade classroom, comes as a whole person, with an astonishing number of gifts and needs.

It took me back to the times I was tasked with something like teaching a student how to round to the ten thousand’s place, knowing full well what they really needed was someone to teach them how to nurture friendships or navigate the chaos of their home. To the many nights we as caregivers lay awake in bed, cataloging needs and thinking through what we can possibly do or teach or orchestrate to get them met. The impossibilities of parenting. The feeling of only being given this finite amount of time to get it all in. And how ultimately, we learn all kinds of things from our teachers and caregivers, whoever they are, and also arrive at adulthood feeling like we must have missed out on something essential.

I love the questions this poem asks, without asking any questions. I love how it acknowledges the many things, lovely and mundane, that we must quietly learn and decide for ourselves throughout our lives. And I love how generously it offers some guidance for any of us who may have also missed that day in fourth grade.

✍️Try it:

For our exercise this week, we’re going to try writing a poem that moves through the container of a unit of time, or a familiar sequence, like “What You Missed That Day You Were Absent from Fourth Grade”. It could be the events of your week, a task you do often, or anything else that has some structure and process to it. You might begin with listing the things that happen in the order they take place. What else is happening? What are some specific details of your setting, emotions, dialogue etc. as you progress through this scafolding of time? Are there any friction points? Times where this routine has been interrupted? Times when you’ve realized or decided something meaningful or surprising? Notice and try to imitate how Modlin moves steadily through the subjects of a school day, while also heading off in so many directions.

If that feels like too much for your week, you could also just copy the poem into your poetry notebook. Below it, write anything you notice, like, or wonder about it. Or anything it brings up for you.