Ramblin’ Prose

I cried at drop-off again today.

I’m not proud of it. It’s more than a month into school, after all. It’s embarassing, even if nobody sees. It always hits me at the moment just after the van door slides shut, and they turn toward school, holding hands.

My babies.

I learned what an elastic muscle the heart is when Abby started school. Because I was sure it was going to swell and burst in my chest every single morning when she shouldered that backpack and walked away.

It was like I’d swallowed a fishhook, and every step she took tugged the line. I never let her see me cry, and as the days went by, it ached a little less every day.

That was four years ago. Abby’s a third-grader now, and Camille just started kindergarten.
I thought it would be easier this time, but it’s actually harder. Because she’s the baby, and she’s not a baby anymore. This is the beginning of the road that leads her to her own future, and to me watching her run toward it. And letting her go.

It’s something about the love they show for each other that makes my heart start to swell again. The way Abby waits for her, helps her put that backpack on, and takes her hand. Doing the big sister things that no little sister ever forgets.

So there they go, down that walkway, holding hands, and I have to be careful not to run into the car in front of me as I snatch one more backward glance.

And I start to cry.

Again.