Tomorrow will be my boy’s last day at preschool. I am way more unprepared for this than he is.
Four months ago I wrote, of this window, and the changing view it affords:
now, whenever I do drop him off (as I did this morning; a once-weekly gift to myself and him, baby steps toward balance), it’s me who lingers on the sidewalk looking back at the empty window where once, not even six months ago, he would blow kisses, gesture hugs, and bravely wave goodbye.
It was only a heartbeat before that that I was called back to this house by the angel-from-heaven preschool director to fetch my older daughter: she was just too inconsolable, midmorning her first morning there. Of course things changed; she adapted, and grew. Eventually it was her brave face at this window, waving goodbye. Then his. After tomorrow, it will be neither: just this photograph, and when we walk or drive by, other tender faces at the beginning of a journey, peering out at both their past and their future.