It’s
the middle of the night and my dog, Bucky, is beside my bed panting in my face
and pacing about in nervous frustration.
In spite of the fact that he is losing his hearing, and he has cataracts
that make his vision poor, he is still the first in the family to know a
thunderstorm is coming. Once I
gather my senses, I can see the room lighting up and realize there is
lightening close by. After being
with our family for seven years, Bucky has never once even raised his head
during a battering down-pour, or batted an eyelash in ear splitting thunder;
until now. No one knows what
triggered his change of heart, but he certainly is not happy or able to calm
himself while a storm moves through.
It’s just another sign of change
around here that I am trying to ignore.
We don’t know exactly how old Bucky is, but we do know he’s a senior
citizen. His white face gives him
away. And there are other
signs. We have to talk him into
eating breakfast in the morning.
He’s not as fast on his walks as he used to be. And he sometimes seems confused about
all the activity around here. I know how he feels, but my reaction to his sure
signs of aging, is to pretend I don’t see, to fool myself into keeping Bucky
young and spry.
The same defense I’ve been using to
disguise all the emotions I feel as our youngest makes his way through the last
days of elementary school. Can it
be possible that we will leave this building behind? I had tricked myself into believing that I would not have to
do this, that it would not happen to me, that my baby would somehow defy the
odds and live in some sort of suspended world where he never aged beyond the
perfect years of innocence here in the early grades of learning. I have been able to sleepwalk through
the talk of end of year parties, and 5th grade celebrations.
But now the warm summer breezes are
blowing through my living room and we are somehow suddenly here. We’ve somehow arrived at the place I
liked to think I wasn’t going to get to.
Here before my eyes is the date on the calendar, circled and starred,
and highlighted with exclamation marks; the last day of school, the last day of
life as we know it, in the familiar easy routine we have grown accustomed to
since, just two weeks after he became old enough to go to school, we sent Jake
bravely walking through these doors into his new exciting phase of life. And now, in a mere blink, we are
closing those doors up tight. Can it even be possible?
But of course it is. This boy on the verge of young man is
bursting at the seams to bust out of these doors, to race into the next phase,
to tackle middle school at full tilt, just as he attacked grade school, without
a glance in the rear view mirror.
And as I dig in my heels to slow it all down I realize it’s
time to let go and embrace his moment in the sun, here as king of the grade
school, and just run with him.
And in case I want to hide my head in the sand and pretend,
as I would like to, that it’s not really happening, the school is coming to my
rescue with proof positive that he’s moving on.
The tradition at Jake’s school is
that next year’s 5th graders celebrate the outgoing class of 5th
graders by showering them with cheers and confetti as they literally walk
through a tunnel of familiar faces leading them smiling and laughing into their
next phase of life. The entire thing takes only a few seconds, and yet the
symbolism and irony hangs there heavy for me like a silent movie taking it’s
time to sink in.
With just
enough time to grab a quick picture if I’m lucky, I will feel rushed to capture
the moment before it’s past, and just as I do, the school assembly is over, the
kids are out the door and the confetti covered gym is quiet. One phase ended and another begun, so
simply and so out of my control, despite my efforts to the contrary.
And so, I do the only thing I know how
to do now, put a smile on my face, and begin to pretend that middle school will
never lead to the next step.
