Well Earned Tears

First grade is hard the same way the ocean is wet. There is only so much newness that one can take in before one is overwhelmed, and the only response is to break down a bit. For example, today was a normal day, with our standard lesson and activities. One activity that I particularly enjoy is when our teacher sings to us. She has a beautiful voice, and I don't know about everybody else, but I always feel like she is singing for me.

Today when she started to sing, it was a new song for our class. New, but somehow familiar to me. At first I hummed along, without even knowing how I knew the tune, then an old door creaked open in the back of my mind, and the memory came spilling out: it was a warm, dark, safe place, with Mommy. She was holding me in her arms, and singing the same song. I remembered it so hard that for a moment I was there in Mommy's arms, without the words to express the joy I felt at falling asleep in this perfect place hearing this perfect song, that reminded me of an even more perfect place, hearing the song of Mommy's heartbeat and breathing, surrounded by her.

For a moment the memory was a perfect crystal, more beautiful than anything I've ever held. Then it melted into the here and now, and my cheeks were wet with the past. I realized that I was back in a world where sometimes I got to spend no time with Mommy. I could't remember the last time she had sung to me, and it sat on my chest like a gorilla. I sobbed, mourning the changes in my life this past year, and fearing what was to come.

My teacher asked what was wrong, and I told her that she had sung a song of my infancy, now further away than the stars, and even more impossible to reach. I asked her to hold me, and she did. It wasn't the same as being with Mommy, but it was okay. I sat on her lap and let my anguish flow until all that was left was the memory itself, now tinged with sadness.

I got up off of her lap and returned to my seat. I could see my pain reflected in the faces of my classmates. No doubt some of them were sampling their own bittersweet memories. Maybe some of them were reawakening to the blessings that they had tuned out due to familiarity. I saw no contempt, no mockery. We can be so cruel when we see our classmates in tears, especially when we believe they are unearned. That day all of them knew that I had earned my tears, and some of them joined me in weeping for the lost past. Then I noticed that same pain reflected in the eyes of my teacher. I realized at that moment that she loved me. All of us, really. Of course not as deeply as Mommy loves me, but with a real love. A love that is there every day, ready to pick you up and brush you off when you fall down, ready to wipe your nose, and willing to help you better yourself. But more importantly, she loved me even though a year ago she hadn't even met me. I realized that love can be found outside of those who have known you your whole life: it's ready to grow into any crack in your life.

Everyone says that I am too young to be nostalgic, longing for what has gone. I say that a lifetime ago is a long time, whether your lifetime is seven or one hundred seven years. Learn to love the time you are in now, but don't let go of your past. Rather, use it as an anchor as you search for the love that will inevitably be found in your future.

Quinten with a bear. Not his teacher.

[This story is third hand, based on what Horyon told me of a text message received from Quinten's teacher. As such, I have taken some liberties in imagining what happened at the time, and assuming Quinten's point of view, and expanding his vocabulary somewhat. I don't believe I am breaking any rules in this, but feel free to contact the authorities if you disagree.]

The Goodbye

When we arrived in Kansas, the way Quinten ran to his Grandpa, jumped into his arms, and held his hand without even looking back at me brought tears of joy to my eyes.  Today, when he realized that we were saying goodbye to Grandpa and Grandma, his sobs tore me apart like nothing ever has before.  I had no idea how hard it would be for him to leave, and for me to take  him away.  The relationship between my father and my son was more beautiful than I could have imagined.  They made things together, swam together, and sat by each other at meals without fail.  Every day I saw five years old and 71 years old connect in the way that only happens when each calls the other "Grand."

"We say goodbye to Grandpa forever?"  Choke.  I must answer without sobbing.

"No.  We'll see Grandpa and Grandma again."  But there is a lie in this truth: in no time at all, five-year-old Quinten will be gone forever, replaced by six- and then seven-year-old Quinten.  The next time he sees Grandpa and Grandma it won't be the same.  It can't be the same.

"The day after the day after tomorrow?"  He's only recently learned this phrase and the meaning behind it.  This is the furthest he can conceive of the future.  More than a week might as well be a million years to him.

"No.  It will be longer than that."  I don't lie to my kids.  Delaying a painful truth doesn't make it any less painful.

"I HATE saying goodbye to Grandpa and Grandma!"  I've been trying to strike the word "hate" from our family vocabulary, but I can't correct him on this one.

"Me too, buddy.  Me too."

We share my handkerchief, soaking it through.  My sleeve is soaked with tears, and I don't even try to hide it.  We are the last passengers to get on the plane, and the stewardess asks if he is ok.  I say yes, because even thinking of a longer, more honest answer, threatens to shatter the veneer of control barely covering my grief.  Later I manage to get as far as, "We just said goodbye to Grand... my parents."  Deep breath.  Blink away tears.  Let the nice lady get back to her work.

Quinten continues to cry for the next hour.  He stops for a few minutes, then resumes again. I wouldn't stop my tears if I could, but I hold back my sobs until he is asleep, leaning on me, still holding on to my arm.  I know that if I let it all out in front of him Maxine will join us in breaking down completely.

Maxine is sad as well, but she remembers saying goodbye; she knows that reunion is possible.  She has just experienced it, and loved it.  At eight years old she has a broader perspective of time than Quinten at five.  This was painful, but she clearly remembers her friends and home.  Quinten's universe barely spans a few weeks ago to a few days from now.

My parents wait in the security check line with us for a while, but when Quinten start crying, and Maxine joins in, my Mom has to leave, and Dad with her.  The gravity of a five-year-old can only be overcome through distance, and the tidal forces after one hug will rip you apart.

It doesn't help that it is five in the morning.

It doesn't help that I had set my alarm wrong and only woke up when Dad knocked on our door.

It doesn't help that I had slept less than three hours.

It doesn't help that I don't want to go either.  I want so badly to stay with my parents, to not take Maxine and Quinten from their Grandpa and Grandma.  I don't feel like I am going home, I felt like I am leaving home.

I tell myself that this wouldn't hurt so much if the visit hadn't been so good.  If we had stayed in my parents home instead of renting a condo, we would all be so sick of each other that we would be sighing with relief at this moment.  If I had brought the kids to Kansas out of a sense of duty I would be satisfied with a job well done.  If we had come just to see the sights we would be taking all we need in our cameras and eyes.  If we had only planned to eat American food until we couldn't eat any more we... Well, I am pretty much satisfied on that front.

What I received from this trip was something that I can't put on an itinerary, and can barely put into words: it was like I got to hug my grandmother Maxine again, though she's been gone since I was in junior high.  I got to hear my Grandma Sack laugh again, though her body followed her mind into darkness shortly after I got married.  I got to walk with Grandpa Sack again, though the cancer finally took him my freshman year in college.  I got to visit Grandpa Euler in his office at Goodyear Roofing and Heating again, though both Grandpa and the building are gone.  There is such joy in this that my heart can barely hold it, as well as a mourning of both the past and future.  Some day my Mom and Dad will be gone.  Quinten will miss them terribly, but if God wills it I will hold his children and be their Grandpa before it is my turn to move on.