Monday, August 25, 2014

First Day

I pulled out of my driveway this morning at the same time a school bus turned down the side street next to our house. All along the sidewalks of our small town, parents walked alongside their children, whose little shoulders hunched forward under the weight of their backpacks filled with new school supplies dutifully purchased off a long list published on the schools’ websites. A few intrepid parents rode bicycles along with their kids, who could often barely keep their front wheels straight, still so unpracticed they are at the art of bicycle-riding. A handful of older kids walked or rode alone, proud to be big enough to go solo.

I can almost see her. An outfit she picked out herself. Pigtails. Or maybe she changed her mind at the last minute and decided on braids. Her own heavy backpack, maybe with her favorite character on it, filled with a change of clothes, pencils, glue sticks, tissues—simple supplies for kindergarten. A lunchbox (although who knows what I would have packed in it). A gangly and knobby-kneed girl, with not the slightest hint of the chubby cheeks that graced her sweet face when last I saw her. Those bright and wise eyes shining right out of her face. A photo of her grinning and holding a hand-drawn sign saying, “First Day of Kindergarten!” with her name and the date. Another of her with arms around the buddies she’d surely have made here in the place her parents call home, all ready to file into school together. Another of her sitting down at her new desk, still grinning like crazy, because She. Is. Ready. She has been waiting for this all summer long.

She’s right there, almost like a floater in my field of vision—I can see her until I try to actually look at her, and then she floats away.

These milestones, like so many others in life, seem so far away for so long, and then, suddenly, they are upon us. And yet they are so unlike other milestones. So many friends are bidding a bittersweet farewell to a chapter in their children’s lives that we never got to finish. And these markers of a life unfinished, of hopes unrealized, of destinies unfulfilled, yawn endlessly in front of me—so many more to anticipate, so many more to endure, so many more to reflect upon, to wonder about, to imagine, and then to chase right out of sight because I looked too hard.

I’ll never stop wishing that one of these days, one of these moments when I try to really see her, she’ll actually be there.

9 comments:

  1. I thought of you today. Prayers and hugs...

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  2. "I’ll never stop wishing that one of these days, one of these moments when I try to really see her, she’ll actually be there." This breaks my heart.

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    1. I'm so sorry that you know exactly what this feels like.

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  3. Veronica would also be starting kindergarten if she were still here. I'm so sorry. It sucks.

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    1. Oh, Olivia. I'm so sorry for you, too. But I'm so grateful to have you on this journey with me.

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  4. It's so hard to see all the "others," the ones who are still here, as they grow and change and get on with their lives. Matt's friends are all getting engaged or married, starting their families and their lives as husbands and wives, parents. My heart breaks with each new announcement, each "new baby" picture that I see is bittersweet. I try to focus on the joy...but all I can think of is that this is a joy he wanted so badly to experience and will never have...and I will never have that precious grandchild that would have been so much like him.

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    1. I know, Judy. The parade of kindergarten photos has been so hard-- I'm excited for them of course, but… Love you, my friend.

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  5. Like you, I can never stop wishing. On your behalf. And on my own. Wish that they were both here. Sending you so much love.

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