~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
YOU
baby teeth
pink cheeks
sweat-beaded lip
You clutch the straps of an over-sized Batman backpack.
You have a paper band wrapped around your head. Jagged triangles and circles and rectangles cling to the paper band by dots of Elmer’s.
You see my familiar face.
Your Batman backpack bops up and down against your lower back as your pace quickens.
I hear you saying so many things with your tear-filled eyes.
I was scared.
I missed you.
I’m ok.
My fingers don’t work. I couldn’t open my pretzels.
I didn’t have a friend to race on the playground.
I want to go home.
I don’t want to come back.
I’m ok.
I used the stapler all by myself.
I cut these shapes without my teacher’s help.
I danced to the bean bag song. I got my favorite color—green.
I made this paper hat. I made it all by myself.
I can’t wait to show Daddy.
I’m gonna wear it in the car.
I’m ok.
~~~~~~~~~~~
ME
Your tiny paw grabs my hand unprompted.
I’m nervous.
I’m excited.
I’m sad.
I don’t want you to go back.
I don’t want you to stay home.
I don’t want you to be lonely.
I want to help you open your pretzels.
I want you to find a familiar 5-year-old to sit next to in the crowded cafeteria.
I want to follow you all day and protect your heart.
I’m scared.
I see your paper hat.
I see the irregular edges where you used your safety scissors to clumsily cut out triangles and circles.
You are so excited to tell me you got to use the teacher’s stapler.
I notice a boy much taller than you. Maybe 9 or 10 or 11 years old. He has rosy cheeks and sweaty hair stuck to his forehead.
His shoulders effortlessly haul a navy blue Jansport backpack. It does not bounce up and down when he walks.
The boy glances up and sees a middle-aged woman whose eyes are screaming ‘I’m right here! I missed you!’
She waves vigorously at him.
His pace remains the same.
He’s tired.
He’s annoyed.
He’s overwhelmed.
The middle-aged woman with the crossed arms sighs heavily and stands on her tip toes to get a better look at the 9 or 10 or 11-year-old.
He looks back down.
The tall boy with the plain backpack sees you.
He sees the stapled band of shapes wrapped around your head and rolls his eyes.
He hears the naive excitement radiating from your eyes.
He looks at your Batman backpack.
He looks at your name tag. (the one on your lunch box. The one one your backpack. The one on you. All three.)
~~~~~~~~~~
YOU
You look up at a 9 or 10 or 11-year-old boy trudging along beside you.
The boy nods his head at you to pass him.
He knows you still need to see me.
He knows you still care about paper hats and staplers.
He watches you wrap your hands around my legs
Then grab my hand with your tiny paw.
He looks at the middle-aged woman and gives her the smallest of smiles.
He’s ok.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ME
I watch the tall boy walk up to the middle-aged woman.
She asks him “How was your day?” “Did you eat your lunch?” “Do you have homework?”
I hear him grunt.
She looks back at your jagged octagons.
And your staples.
She cries and shouts at me with her grey eyes :
Remember this moment! Remember this paper hat! Remember this Batman backpack! Remember these tiny paws! Remember the days that he wants to run to you and talk to you about staplers and shapes! For the love of God, enjoy this!
I pick up all 47 pounds of you.
I smile.
I smell you.
I look at the woman with the crossed arms and with my small, brown eyes I tell her, “You’re so strong.”
She’s ok.
~~~~~~~~~~
I look at the middle-aged woman with the blond hair and the crossed arms and the eager eyes. I watch her push her hair back with her sunglasses and put her heels back on the ground, lowering herself from her tippy toes.
I look at myself.
Pacifiers become Paper hats. Paper hats become Playstations. Playstations become Pontiacs. Pontiacs become Parents.
I’m ok.
Traci Lapierre 