I’m about to leave my heart at the classroom door.
The one that feels things deeply, the one who is often misunderstood, the one who recently said when we moved, “home is the best place for me”.
I’m about to stand there, pretending to be strong and wave goodbye, as if this next part of our lives has nothing to do with me.
Maybe his heart is not as little as I think it is.
Maybe it will do just fine without me, on its own, growing stronger.
How we nurture and grow, until that heart of ours beats to the sound of its own rhythm.
Our purpose, to hold them close so the impending distance never feels far.
Love, in itself.
Kindy wasn’t too different was it? Why does this feel so much bigger then?
Why does it feel like I’m all exposed, inside out, a cage of butterflies.
Is it because we won’t write from the same pen as often anymore? Is this the official beginning of his own chapters and his own stories?
Maybe because I can’t be there to protect him, or maybe it’s simply to just protect the stage we are in, the chaotic and intimate beauty of it all.
But here I am, surrendering all the parts of me that instinctively tell me to hold on, the same one’s he’s taught me to let go.
This is another beginning, another time of many I will cheer on another first step.
I’m so grateful to watch as he leaves something behind (with me, the keeper of everything) so he can move forward, in the way they’re meant to, and in a way I am too, in the way I have to.
But school is simply a reminder of the luxury of time.
The diamond in our hand that turns to sand.
The sacrifice of it in equal parts.
The gratitude for it with them.
And the reminder, as I leave my heart behind, that when it comes to our children,
We will never have enough.
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