for amelia bird

You walked out
of your kindergarten classroom
for the last time today.

This year has felt
impossibly long
and also
like the blink of an eye.

Being a parent stretches
your capacity for instant nostalgia,
for attempts to wrap
your arms and mind
around something that was here

just a second ago
and is now gone.
It bruises your heart

the way muscles bruise
when you push them
to run faster,
carry more and more
weight.
It is a good bruise
that means we are all becoming

who we are.

first day of school

When I left your classroom
on the first day
I made it as far as I could. 

I hurried past the other teary moms,
pushed through the school's front doors into the warm September morning. 
I bit my lips.  I looked at the sky,
watched my shoes. 

I made it to my car.  Before I cried.

I cried while I tried to imagine what you were doing. 
It felt so foreign to have to guess, to not simply know.
I drove slowly through our town.

Back and forth
on sunny streets.

And I let my heart break
over the wonder and pride
and utter loss
I felt
over your first day of school.

I finally parked
and wandered
into a basement thrift store.
As I walked slowly through the store
a woman I barely knew
smiled and asked me
how are you
just the way people do.

I had never before cried
on a stranger's shoulder.
All I could say was
it's my daughter's first day
of kindergarten before she
wrapped me in her arms
with an awe, honey.

I cried because I couldn't see your face.
I cried because how can this be right,
to send you far from me
each day?
I cried because what if your feelings were hurt,
or you were tired, or you needed me?

I cried because
I love you more
than anything.
I cried because I was afraid
you'd struggle

and maybe you'd fall.

But you flew, Bird.


Of course you did.