Robin Writes: First day of school goodbye
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By Robin Garrison Leachrobin w
My daughter climbed the steps of the school bus on the first day of kindergarten, her tiny legs stretching to meet each stair. She plopped down on a bench facing our home and glanced out the window.
Her eyes were a myriad of emotions as they scanned the house behind me; excitement, pride, curiosity. And a little anxiety.
Perhaps she was only mirroring what she had seen on my own face that morning.
After a second or two, she faced forward and straightened her back against the seat. She made no move to look my way again, and I didn’t expect her to.
Andrea had always hated saying goodbye. Her way to separate had always been to avoid the emotions…to forge ahead without fanfare.
Andrea sat with a resolve borne of the knowledge of how much it hurts to face life’s inevitable series of goodbyes.
That morning, as I watched my last child take her first ride to school, I was ready for our usual routine. She didn’t move a muscle as she and waited for the rest of the children at our stop to board.
I couldn’t help holding my hand up—only as far as my shoulder—just in case I got the chance to wave to her.
I felt left out of this important moment. All the other kids were leaving their moms with smiles, tears, and hand flapping like birds’ wings taking flight.
The bus door folded shut and the engine jerked into gear. I lowered my hand slowly, but kept my eyes riveted to toward the bus. Each second was being stored in that part of a mother’s memory where all precious moments go.
Just as the bus began to roll away, I detected a slight shift in Andrea’s posture. Her head began to tilt in my direction, and as I glimpsed the edges of her eyes, I prepared myself for the worst.
Would she suddenly start sobbing uncontrollably, too far away for my help but close enough that I would share her anguish?
I steadied myself and clenched the hand that had seconds ago had been ready to wave her on her way. I would not cry. I would not look alarmed.
She needed me to be strong, and that was all I could give her now.
My daughter’s eyes met mine that morning with all the emotion I felt in my heart. She reached forward toward the open window with her five-year-old hands, pulled herself up to the air between us, and met my full eyes with a tremulous baby-toothed smile that shook at the corners with the promise of courage.
As the bus pulled away, amid the noises of other children and the movement of all other life around me, I heard the voice of my child giving me the reassurance she somehow knew I needed.
“Remember me!” she called as she left my sight. I watched the back of her body through the retreating bus windows as she plopped back down to face the future, and I knew we would be fine…
…and I would remember that moment forever.
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ν Robin is a freelance columnist who lives and writes in Quincy, Illinois. Contact her at [email protected].
