One could go on and on forever talking about anything, but I'll just touch on it here.

Wednesday, August 28, 2019

Walking Away, Waving Back

Those blue shoes tied on you, carrying along your green backpack with water, a snack, and a folder,
run to search for new friends on the playground. They take you away from me, into a world of bells, worksheets, music class, PE, and the pledge of allegiance. Into several hours each day, Monday through Friday, when I won't have my eyes on you. I won't hear you humming, laughing, making explosion noises as you play Minecraft or LEGOs. I won't see you listening, chasing other kids, eating a granola bar before recess. I won't know every detail of your day and chances are, you won't tell me. And that's OK.

No tears flow down my face as I watch you race away. But then you turn and wave, keep running, turn and wave again, looking back at me. I know somewhere I'm still on your mind today, just as you are on mine. I'm still a part of you and you are still a part of me. You grow, you stretch, you fly. I'm still here. You're still you.

I wave back, too, and walk away. I wave and walk away, but take a little of you with me, and leave a little of me there, smiling at you on the playground, waiting for you to return.

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