Yesterday, I walked the halls of Abby's elementary school.
What is it about the palpable, tangible energy during those last school days? The students and teachers all wear a mix of exhaustion and anticipatory joy on their faces. As my feet moved me down the hall, I recalled organizing all the shiny, crisp school supplies into Abby's backpack for the first day of school. Now, I peeked into classrooms and saw children haphazardly shoving old, worn folders, well-loved crayons and papers into their packs.
I inhaled the school unique essence of school: tempera paint, paper reams, glue and sweaty gym shoes. The scent of freshly-cut grass wafted in through the open windows. Blank hall walls, which just last week proudly displayed students' work, now looked so stark, punctuated with the occasional ripped corner of some well-thought-out project, pierced with one stalwart thumbtack. The floors of the hallway? The scuffed, well-traveled halls seemed torn. I could almost hear them saying, "I thought they'd never leave," while heaving a sigh of relief and trying to commit the footsteps and hum to memory. As if they could sense the impending, inevitable solemn quiet and darkened days. And were already yearning for the freshness of fall. I know how they feel.
Where do endings end and beginnings really begin? They mesh and parallel each other. I suspect the edges are always gray, frayed and ambiguous. Like those hallowed halls, like those worn school supplies. Like me. Yearning for quiet, embracing the noise and simultaneously craving both summer and fall.
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