The last day of summer

The end of summer.  Marked by the rubbery smell of fresh erasers, new sneakers and notebooks, it was always with secret glee that I would arm myself with the accoutrements of another school year and thus ritually cleanse away the suspended disbelief of summer.  

I have offered no such rituals to my child.  Instead we squeeze out every last golden drop of our glorious freedom.  Nothing more, and nothing less than a bike ride, together, to the pool (with accompanying raccoon-style sunburn) and back.  Then an afternoon with friends, she with hers, I with mine.

Kik is leaving, it must be true because half her living room has found its way into mine, but I can't really bring myself to understand the gravity of my soon to be utter loneliness.  And I mustn't complain really, I have been surrounded by friends and children, biking and hiking and sharing meals, Travis and Amelia, Nate and Bekki and the kids, Cheyla and Nico and their newest edition, Kik and P., but I know this too all will end, and it will be back to the grind for us.  And the dissertation looms.

But for now I will be pleased, after successfully feeding all four children, pasta, carrots and coq au vin (I was exceptionally proud of the results, and I even managed not to waste the wine that David opened and left last week, and the other bottle that Nico barely touched before leaving). Soon the smell of Californian eucalyptus will permeate the air and remind me of broken-heartedness, ever ready to manifest its record, albeit a more and more distant present.

My child has no backpack, she reminds me, and we decide to shop tomorrow.  She goes up and showers while I scrub the remnants of our meal from the pots and pans, smiling because I am reliving the salad we had for lunch and the baffling but welcome change of vegetable heart that has overcome my small person.  She combs her hair, lays out her clothing and acquiesces to my alternate suggestions for the morn, every day a bit less little girl, a bit more young adult.  She reads stories out loud to me as I go about putting some semblance of order to our upstairs universe, wash out bathing suits, hang damp towels, brush my teeth.  Then we snuggle, it is only 9:30, I congratulate myself inwardly, and she clamps down in a vise-like hug, supplicating that I not leave until such time as she has fallen asleep.  It doesn't really work because with each movement that I surreptitiously make, in an effort to ease myself out of the bed and onto the floor, she stirs and clamps down harder.  I finally reason with her.  Yes, I will leave my bedroom door open.  Tomorrow is the first day of a new school. Once again.  Some things never change.