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Yearbooks have lost most of their power now. What used to shock me on the rare occasions when I ran across them, the stray moments preserved in handwriting, the DNA pressed between the pages, has become abstract now. It’s too far away, too remote for me to access in any meaningful way, and it’s filled with ghosts.

My teachers are all gone now. The calendar is cruel and relentless, and math catches up with us all.

It’s always an uneasy search. I run across an old yearbook, and a photo bumps my brain and I get curious. I wonder about certain teachers from my past, and I type their nam...