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This is Just to Say

This is just to say that…

The one who’d stood in the parking lot on Monday, his backpack, fully cinched, sagging to the back of his knees, and who’d peeked up from his blue laces to see me four car lengths away waiting. Waiting for his eyes to find mine. Waiting for his eyes to tell his feet it was okay to run. Because I was ready—arms-spread-wide ready, as if I might fly. Ready to catch his love. Ready to return it with my own.

Ready like my own parents who stood on the road’s edge of Columbine St. thirty-three years ago and watched as I skittered rocks with my shoe, my head never raising, my school bag bumping the backs of my legs. Until if I hadn’t looked up, I’d have missed the moment–my dad crouching on the cracks of the sidewalk, blocking my way with outstretched arms. My mom to the side. And I’d run. Dropped my book bag and run. Burying myself into my father’s arms.

That one. That child who sparked the past.

The one with the wagging front tooth, the perpetually empty stomach, and the infinite desire to play tag. He…

He made his own oatmeal today!

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