Happy Father’s Day III

“Today’s my last day of school!” Jack calls back to the crossing guard, as we step from the crosswalk to the sidewalk.

“I think she knows that, son,” I say to him, with a smile. “It’s her job to get us across the street safely. I imagine they told her she doesn’t need to be here tomorrow.” I wave to her to myself in thank you, as she is a very good crossing guard, vigilant and friendly, someone with whom I have had a number of pleasant conversations this past year. The crossing guards at some of the other intersections are ancient women who do not smile, or speak. One of them doesn’t even get out of her car and actually stop the traffic when you approach the street.

Jack nods at the sense of this, not overly concerned. He has had an entire weekend of personalized attention at Dad’s Flophouse & Gameatorium, is wearing a blue shirt with yellow gym shorts, because they were the last clean clothes we had in his clothes bag, and he is bouncing, giddy with anticipation over everything he will NOT being doing in class today. It’s an attitude I partially understand and partially do not. Somewhere within the past year, the 10-year old male gestalt finally finished unifying the disparate inputs of Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Cartoon Network, Captain Underpants and dozens of other sources into the single decree that School is “boring” and to be hated, so now Jack hues to that line. I can appreciate the fun of being relieved of his usual responsibilities, of having a pizza party in class and possibly watching a movie, of having a summer ahead of him filled with things of his own choosing. I don’t really understand how he got from there to his stated desire to end the school year by placing all of his books and papers in a wheelbarrow and lighting them on fire. At least this morning we remembered the Ritalin.

“Let’s count the squirrels,” he says, still holding my hand. “Whoever gets more wins.” He points out the one he’d already spotted, that gave him the idea, intoning, “One,” then starts scanning for more. I do, too. There are no others to be seen, unusual for such a cool shady morning: none in the shining grass of the green yards, none on the leafy tree limbs, none darting out of sight around the corners of brick walls as we wend our way down the long streets. “Where are they all?” he says, after a time, confused.

“Hiding,” I tell him, plainly. “They heard you say we were playing a game, so they’re staying out of sight.” I glance down at him. “Except for that one who came out so you could count him. They want you to win.”

He smiles up at me, uses my hand to steady himself as he jumps along the row of white rocks that borders the playground, stone to stone. “Then I guess I win,” he grins.

We have never quite mastered the timely arrival all these days of 4^th grade– Jack, even now, has little grasp on such mundane matters as When School Starts, and I forget it as soon as I look it up, then lose the piece of paper on which I wrote it down– but we’re bang on the money today, and we hear the school before we see it: the calling-out and the shrieking. The long wet grass licks into our sandals and moistens our toes as we stride over the fields to join the crowd. One mother wades through a hip-high swirl of children, quips to another (in English) about having taken a day off “just to stand here and applaud.” The yellow-belted boy from Jack’s judo class wanders through carrying a bag of Dunkin’ Donuts almost the same size as his body. Everyone is loud, smiling. It’s funny, and familiar, and yet feels nothing at all like it did those many months ago, on the first day— although whether that’s because I’ve changed, or Jack has, or the month has, or the world has, or all of the above, is hard to tell.

The first day, I realize then, watching Jack wave hello to his classmates. I was here. For the first day. With him. Just like this. I put my hand on his shoulder. And now I’m here for the last. And I wonder in turn, unavoidably, if I’ll be here for the first day or the last next year, or the year after that. I have a funny suspicion, the same suspicion I’ve had all along: probably not. It seemed like a long shot then. It only seems like a longer shot, impossible, now. But at least I’m here right now, I think– and that, too, when I think it is very familiar, very much what this year has been about. Replacing, “It would be nice if,” with, “At least”.

The doors of the school bang open, and he slips into my arms for a quick hug. “See ya at 12:45,” I tell him. I have about three hours to clean up his toys, throw all his stuff into his bag and make sure his DS is charged, before picking him up from school and handing him off to Weaver. They’re leaving right from her job to travel Upstate, spend a few days with his grandmother. Weaver got a half-day too.

“Okay,” he says.

He joins the line, and I watch him until he vanishes inside, until it’s impossible to see him, the way I always do. He doesn’t always look back to see if I am watching anymore, but today he does, and he slips me one more smile before he disappears, so I wink at him. Then I light out over the fields, on my own again. I have a couple of singles burning a hole in my pocket; there’s Turkish coffee from the Kosher Mart sitting in a Mason jar in my kitchen, but the singles will get me a large hazelnut coffee at Panera, and somehow that seems like the right thing, a good choice for today. The sun will burn the shade away soon, light up the sky. I can be out in the world now, see people’s faces. Do some writing later.

On the way, two squirrels leave the cover of the bushes and dart across the sidewalk, crossing my path.

I just laugh.