As I do the dinner dishes, my tears drop into the dishwasher. During a momentary reprieve, I am grateful I can empty the dishwasher without stopping every few seconds to wipe my eyes. Then, with no warning, the tears start again.

I had planned to write about a different topic this month. But this is what’s happening right now; this is real. Here is my material, right inside my broken heart. After wiping the sink, I sit down at my computer, and now the keyboard gets wet.

Janette is leaving. Janette is leaving me. I try not to have favorites, to love and treat all my students equally, but sometimes there’s magic between me and one of my children. I don’t create it, I simply recognize it as existing through the mysterious grace of the universe. Janette and I have magic; we adore each other. Her father has received a promotion and on June 12 Janette’s family moves to Dallas.

"I’ll never find a teacher as good as you," Janette says. To her I say, "Of course you will; a big city like Dallas has wonderful flute teachers." In fact, I’ve already obtained a referral to a good flute teacher in Dallas for Janette. In my mind, though, I’m like a mother who knows that no one can care for her child as well as she can. My mind says, "I know Janette. I know what she needs. I know what motivates her. I know how to nurture her particular style of creativity. I know what comforts her when she ‘messes up’ in recital. I know, I know, I know…" Of course I don’t believe this, but my heart feels it’s the truth.

Janette is a great student, self-motivated and in love with the flute. She practices conscientiously and comes to each lesson well prepared. When she has trouble learning a new skill, she perseveres until she gets it. Even when I push her pretty hard, she stays with me. She’s usually in a good mood and shares what she did in school, or what activity her family is planning for the weekend. She asks me how I am, a rare question among my children. I love my quiet, shy students, too, but it’s so easy to connect with Janette. She’s present. She’s alive. Her whole being radiates with spirit.

Janette is an exquisitely beautiful 11-year old. She has dark eyes set in a beautiful face, smooth, gorgeous brown hair, and a smile as bright as sunshine. I want to watch her grow up, to see her thin little-girl body blossom into the beautiful adolescent and young woman she will become. I want to know when she has her first boyfriend. I want to be the one to teach her vibrato and to introduce her to the Handel sonatas and to announce when she is ready for a solid silver instrument. But I only have six lessons left with her, and I can’t squeeze a decade into two months.