He came to me several weeks into the school year, a foster
child with big eyes and a bruised heart.
The first week or so he tried so hard to be the defiant toughie. Always angling for the laugh from
classmates, always trying just a little too hard to fit in.
I waited.
…Waited for his need to feel my love and acceptance outweigh
his need to not stand out glaringly as the new kid. It took about three weeks. His little heart was so tired of feeling emotional pain and
loneliness, and eventually… slowly and ever so gradually… he needed the
assurances of his teacher to help ease his grief.
I was ready.
The little homemade, construction paper cards began to show
up on my desk at odd moments.
Eventually he began to walk over, hesitantly at first, to tell some
inconsequential little first grade bit of trivia just so he could have my
attention for a brief moment. Then
it became a frequent ritual. He
was basking in the unconditional acceptance of a female mother figure; a poor
substitute at best, but enough salve to help heal his trampled soul.
Those big eyes would bore into my being. So serious his little face was at all
times.
I was shoving corrected papers into cubbies twenty minutes
before the morning bell when the second grade teacher, a darling little
dark-headed thing, walked over with coffee cup in hand. “Did you hear?” she asked without
preamble. I have perfected the
deer-in-the-headlights over my fifty years. It came unbidden now.
“Hear what?” I asked
without stopping my chore. “This
is your student’s last day.” My
hands dropped to my side.
“Whaaaaaat??!” I am so
eloquent at times. “Yeah, I just
heard. He and his brother are
going to a new foster home tomorrow.
Today is their last day.”
My stomach dropped to my toes like a bad carnival ride. Ok, foster kids change foster homes for
a variety of reasons. I get
that. But I would have made today
special somehow had I known. I
would have planned. I would have
tried to bring some sort of pathetic closure to his short stay at our school
and my classroom.
I wanted to drop my head and shed a few tears, but bus kids
were waddling in in their winter gear like the Michelin Man and the clock was
steaming towards the twenty after mark.
I didn’t have the luxury of self-pity or reflection.
Stay professional, Mrs. Dahl.
Miss Cutie Patootie was still standing in front of me and
she or I, I do not remember which, suggested we try to throw some sort of party
together for the end of the day.
Next thing I know, I am literally running up the stairs and down the
hall, dodging high school boys the size of small refrigerators, on my way to
the cafeteria and our sweet cook.
I screeched to a halt in front of her, nearly running into the school
maintenance man, and breathlessly told her of my dilemma. Did she possibly have anything on hand,
anything at all, we could use for a small going-away bash for our youngster? She never hesitated. In the blink of an eye, she invited me
into the storage room and loaded me down with candy bars and bags of chips (what
would Michelle Obama think of THAT?) and asked what else we might need. This is why I love teaching in a small
school. We are family.
I spent the day trying to be reassuring without creating
unnecessary drama. I asked him now
and then, how he was doing, and if he was excited? Nervous? He was
incredibly stoic but I caught him willing himself to not cry a time or
two. It was nearly imperceptible,
but I am a mother. I know the
signs.
I gave him warm hugs whenever he came near me and he brought
me homemade, construction paper cards.
He appeared to be doing incredibly well. He kept asking me if he should clean out his tub of
belongings and get ready to go. I
said no. Better to wait for the
end of the day.
It was a difficult day for me. I cannot bear to see children suffer. In spite of his stoicism, he was
suffering. Change is hard for
anyone; especially so when you are only in the first grade and have very few
years of living under your belt.
Finally I had just one hour left with him and I told him he could
get his things together and prepare to leave. I watched him pull things out of his tub and carefully look
them over, one by one. I think in
some odd way, that small plastic tub had been a symbol of permanence to
him. As long as his things were
gathered alongside the markers and extra pencils of his classmates, he felt he
had a place to call his own. He
was one of us and he could prove it.
Just look, he had a spot on the shelf like everyone else.
As he tossed markers and crayons into a plastic bag, he kept
finding little scraps of paper that he had started to draw on or had never
bothered to take home. One by one
he brought these over to me. “I
think you should have this,” he would say and would hold it out to me with that
stone face and those big brown eyes.
“I would be honored to keep it,” I said each time.
We had his party after PE and sang, “For He’s a Jolly Good
Fellow.” The children were
enthralled with their treats and thought our boy was a superstar for the act of
leaving that had caused such a grand celebration.
Five minutes before the bell rang and his things were packed
and sitting by the door. His coat
was on. He was ready. His face
never crumbled, even though my heart was in splinters on the floor of my
soul. I wanted to say so
much. Somehow I knew I would never
see this precious child again on the face of this Earth. Barring death, this is goodbye in its
most cruel finality.
It was now time to let him go, both literally and
figuratively. I pulled him into my
embrace, but his little body did not melt into my arms. He was stiff and unemotional. I whispered goodbye into his black hair
and assured him that I would never forget him. I had given him my picture. I hoped he would not forget me either.
No tears and no drama, but I noticed that as he reached into
his cubby one last time to check for any forgotten papers, his hand
trembled. Then he walked out the
door for the last time, and never once looked back.
It is nasty business, this caring too much. I do not know how to tamp it down or
feel less than I do. This
precious, priceless child walked into the garden of my heart, his bare feet
making footprints in the soft, loose soil. For the briefest of moments, we shared a sunny day and heard
birds singing and watched butterflies alight on the flowers that bloom there.
And then he left.
Not by choice, but by mandate and I watched with helpless sorrow as his
retreating muddy footprints grew distant on my horizon.
He was not the first to go and he will not be the last. Did he take a bit of my sunny garden
with him to remember me by? I
cannot know.
I visited a friend recently in Georgia and minutes before I
had to leave for the airport, she dug up a bit of rosemary from her garden and
wrapped it in a wet paper towel and shoved it into a plastic bag for me. That fragrant, delicious herb sits in
an indigo pot on my windowsill. I snip
a bit of it here and there to add to my cooking. I love that plant and I love the story that goes with it. It is a part of a precious person and a
sweet reminder of her sunny generosity.
I hope and pray that wherever my boy’s path takes him in
this rough and tumble world, he will take a transplanted bit of Mrs. Dahl’s
garden with him.
Be safe, Dear One.
Be happy. And above all,
let Sunshine fill your life and your own garden. Do not let bitterness and self-pity cast shadows on your
path. Rise above and be all you
are destined to be. I am rooting
from afar.
And the footprints left behind?
I will rake around them for they will always be a sweet
reminder of you…
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