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.