Oh boy. I am overrun with nostalgia lately. There's nothing like your kid starting high school to 1) Make you feel old and 2) Make you teary all the *&#*ing time.
I have finally started to call myself a poet, accepting that I love brevity and that, for better or for worse, I'll always be trying to collect images and crystallize them in as few words as possible. It sure is helping these days, when I can hardly keep up with the world inside and outside my doors.
I've been riding my bike more lately, too, and I've found it's a recipe for more clarity, more connection to myself and what's happening around me. That's what happened this morning when I passed Whatcom Middle School and immediately looked for Wyatt on the playfield.
Wherever you are today and whatever you're doing, I hope you're happy and wistful and engaged and growing.
Riding past the middle school playfield,
clusters of kids in the morning sun,
I remember with a jolt
that you aren’t one of them anymore.
I thought I’d have those three years
to stretch my legs, take a breath,
get my parenting act together.
Teach you how to cook a few essentials,
maybe take you to Yellowstone or New York City,
figure you out more than I have.
High school started without much fanfare.
I’ve discovered I have to stay up late
for any chance of sliding
into that thin envelope of light and tenderness,
the one where you laugh at my jokes,
I fix you a sandwich,
and we’re not strangers anymore.