She Graduates, Again
She graduates, again.
This time there is no ceremony, no little-kid wooden chairs to sit in, no speeches to be heard. It is just these simple moments: sitting at the table with her, completing last tasks, telling her how proud I am.
We are here again, at the next ending-beginning: standing in tender recognition of this thing called time and growth, of transitions and of new era’s, of looking back and moving toward the new. My heart breaks open, again. I breathe, I love, I allow.
We take a picture.
This time, she completes 8th grade at our kitchen table. Our homeschool years are complete—she will go to high school in the fall.
What will I recall from these years?
The slow, easy mornings, sharing breakfast, her in the blue chair, wrapped in her fuzzy blanket. Will I remember waiting for her to fix the frizz out of her hair before coming to the table, opening the agenda? How will I never forget the books we read, the conversations we had, the hard work we did, the places we went? How can I ever hold on to these moments forever?
I am scared of memories fading . . .
but I know nothing is ever forgotten within the bones of our becoming.
Time seems to replace the old but it doesn’t, it just keeps creating,
toward the next threshold.
We say, “congratulations” at the crossings.
It is time.
Congratulations, Elle. Love, Mom