A fragment of a grocery shopping list… this is probably about 25-30 years old. It’s her handwriting.

The address label is her mother’s… also about 25-30 years old. I keep these fragments tucked into a drawer… too insignificant for a page in scrapbook, or it’s own “sleeve” in a photo album, but because her handwriting beckons her presence, these scraps are not insignificant enough to toss in the trash. So, I compromise and just keep them in the drawer in the china cabinet in the dining room. Whenever I do  happen to come across them, it’s like she dropped in for a surprise visit. I never expect to find her, when I do.

People are, for one period in time, a mass of cells, atoms and matter — dense — and they take up physical space. They are real.  This is how we define people. Then, poof, they will disappear like dust in an instant. And all you have left, as proof that they once stood here in physical form, are snippets of their handwriting, or the address label that once directed posts to a home.

Not until those bundles of cells are crumbled into dust do you begin to see what has been there all along. What people truly are transcends physical space. They are, instead completely malleable, with a capacity to reside in the corners of drawers, alive in those certain songs, and silently standing by your side as that scent settles around your shoulders.

Time is such a wonderful healer.

“Do you miss your friend?”

“Yeah. We made up a walk together.” He jumped down on the floor, laid on his back, and pulled himself up like a backwards crab and started to walk.

My sons are in a classroom where 1st and 2nd graders are together — so the kids get a chance to learn from the older ones, and the older ones get a chance to teach and mentor the littlier ones. Last year, the missing friend was in the first grader, and my son was in the second grade.

This year the missing friend is the big-brother type second grader, and my first grader was in class with him.

“Do you miss your friend?”

“Yeah. He was the one who always told me how many minutes we had until recess, and when it was time to line up for lunch.”

For now, they’re building their Lego creations as a tribute to their missing friend.

We studied Friday’s cat scan of my son’s broken leg, clipped with a clothes pin to our floor lamp, all weekend.

The cat scan reveals that the fracture line in the tibia runs straight down and splits the ankle.When the orthopedist delivered the news Friday, on my birthday, I found myself grasping the examining table, as if I was the patient, and I could no longer stand on my own right leg. “This will be a 3-6 month injury,” was the first words out of his mouth. I’m already “over this,” but the first thought that came out of my mind was how perfect my son was when he was born, and now they’re going to put screws in him? For life? How unpure… and sad. But, like I said, I’m over that now.  “Isn’t it great they have this technology so he can run?”

The doctor sent his home, and we quickly made arrangements to meet with an orthopedist back home. My husband was at a dinner with curious orthopedic surgeons, so I sent him pictures of the scans on my cell phone. “Two screws,” was the general consensus. Surgery, was slowly becoming in inevitable part of this summer’s adventures.  The question really was, “how much surgery.”

My son is getting along fine on his crutches, and I’m getting used to the rhythm… he can pour his cereal and his milk, but he needs me to walk it over to the table for him. I’m remembering sooner, rather than later, not to ask him to get that box on the high shelf for me, and no, he can’t take the garbage out for you.Without his help, the daily chores are taking longer.

Yet, the injury is taking its toll on my active teenage son, physically and emotionally. He looks wiped out, and I know he needs some serious help… help that we can’t give him at the lake. Ibuprofen, my son’s favorite pain med, was ceased; thins the blood — not good before surgery.  Tylenol was too weak, so we went back to Vicodin. Reminding him to keep his leg propped “higher than your heart,” was my mantra. The immobility of this injury is taking its toll on his spirits.

All weekend, I was at the lake, but not “at the lake.” I packed up our clothes, books, cat scan and CD, along with memories from the lake house this summer… eagerly awaiting the prognosis from the doctor back home. Last night, when I stood in the knotty pine glow of the bathroom, I realized there was a part of me watching myself pack. A part of me never expected to come back home so quickly; and wonders if this is all real. The other part of me couldn’t get home soon enough.

This morning, we left the lake, and arrived home for our 3 p.m. appointment. The injury baffled the nurse — we’re back in a world where an explanation of a wakeboard is needed. The doctor delivered the prognosis:

• Surgery tomorrow morning at 10:30 a.m.
• Out-patient.. but he will be “under.”
• He’ll receive a nerve block that will wear off in 12-24 hours. To stay ahead the pain, I’ll give him his first pain medicine at 10 p.m. tomorrow.
• Bandage for 2 weeks. Bandage will be 3 times bigger than boot.
• Cast for one month.
• Boot for 3 months.
• He’ll need to carry a pillow with him to school so he can keep his leg elevated in classes. (Son already whispered, “I will not carry a pillow to school.” I said, “I’ll make it easier for you… I’ll get you a Buzz Lightyear Pillow case.”
• He will walk on his own again, just before Thanksgiving.

There are lots of nerves in the foot…. his pain will be intense.

Kids do grow up too fast — and something needs to be done about it. It’s stressful. It’s sad. And it’s just downright jarring to my sensibilities to walk into a room to see kids grow long legs and mature faces practically overnight. OK… maybe it was three years, or five years — but it doesn’t feel like years. It seems like moments. And its unsettling. It’s frightening. Not enough time to enjoy them at each stage they’re in — because they keep moving up. I don’t think the kids like it either. They are just as bewildered as me.

They day went like this:

• 7:00 Breakfast…get boys ready for school
• 7:30 start washer to wash clothes the kids said were clean that they will need for day’s ceremonies.
• 9:30 Drop dead time. You must be in the car with two boys for dental appointments by 9:40.
• 9:31. You just came out of the shower.
• 9:50 arrive at dentist.
• 10:45 Go back to dentist because you left your purse there.
• 11:00 Drop one child off at second grade classroom.
• 11:05 Feed Kindergartner.
• 11:10 Remember to put clothes in dryer.
• 11:20 Wash kindergartner’s clean shirt that is now covered with sparkly silly putty.
• 12:00 Get kindergartner to school, hang around for graduation to start.
• 12:05 Remember that you did not bring 5th graders clothes for graduation.
• 12:30 Watch kindergartner graduate.
• 1:35 Line up outside for 5th grade clap-through.
• 1:55-2:10 Fifth grade ceremony in gym
• 2:10-2:50 Reception in gym — text friend to take fifth grader to party.
• 2:45 Remember I also have a 2nd grader that needs to be brought home too.
• 3:30-5:00 Post- party at Westover Park
• 3:15 Argue with 8th grader about arrival time.
• 3:30 Arrive at middle school to find seat.
• 4:00 Watch 8th graders graduate.
• 4:30 Realize that this entire day, while joyful, is a very sad day. Things are just moving too fast for my taste.
• 6:00 Run 5th grader to soccer try-outs (Which were cancelled because the fields were wet.)
• 6:00 Run home for interview for story I’m writing. (He forgot to call.)

Boom, Boom, Boom

The spray-painted black mortarboards that sit atop the faces that carry the sometimes-toothless smiles, sun-kissed cheeks and bare-skinned knees appear, at first, to be a silly parody of the real ceremony happening elsewhere in auditoriums across the country. That would be the real graduation where the participant’s knees are covered with black gowns that carry the eye down to khaki pants and black shoes, or bare-skinned calves that end with a pointy high-heeled shoe.

A parody, however, this is not. What you are about to witness is a classroom of small legs, sitting criss-cross applesauce, that are just coming to the cusp of the realization that this group of little people making up the circle on their floor can no longer be compartmentalized into the one who collects race cars, or the one with a Grandpa that owns a farm, or  simply as “the girls.” They have now become a collective whole.  Even though they have no idea what this truly means – they can now sense an energy that goes beyond themselves, and the individual friends they have made. There is now a collective knowledge that simply just knows not to wear the Batman Costume to school.

This sudden awareness is instantaneously revealed to the parents, who have just felt their stomach lurch (as if they’re on a roller coaster) when the curtain billows up, and the words, Class of 2022, are revealed on a golden banner above those cardboard squares bobbing across the stage. We sent our children into this classroom 9 months ago hoping they’d learn to read, count to 100 and make new friends. But something bigger took place here in this room.

When the shoulders are shrugged up to reach the cheeks, the chin is down on the chest, and the eyes are looking up for fear of “missing something,” the moment has begun. Weeks before, this moment was birthed when the teacher asked the students, “What is (fill-in-the-blank) most famous for? What do you like about him?” The pupil in question was removed from the classroom for this brief Q&A, and is now hearing what his peers think of him for the first time during this very ceremony. The answer always elicits a blush or two, and parents stand silent, hearing for the first time, how the ripples of their little child’s presence here in the world, has intersected with the ripples of all of his peers.

The pupils don’t even have to be told to “hush.” They are simply fascinated by watching the reaction on their blushing friend’s face as the litany of qualities are revealed.

While we may applaud the academic (they are reading) and physical (holding a pencil without cramps) achievements the kindergarteners have surpassed this year, we are more in awe with the people they are becoming: A glimpse into what the world will be like in 2022 when these munchkins are adults.

“Will you be old,” he asks me when I tell him the year of his graduation.
I tell him I’ll be just the same to him.
“How does that happen? How does it get to be 2022” he asks?
“See that sun,” I tell him. “Well, it just keeps moving through to sunset to sunrise, day after day. It just keeps going, and you don’t even have to do a thing to make it happen.”

If I was a medieval alchemist, and you came to me with a bagful of sorrow, I’d fry you leaves of sage. You’d eat. I’d wait for the clearing to come. In that space, sage could do its work and allow your sorrow to transform into something else. Something shinny and new. This is your big chance, I’d say. “Don’t let this slip through your fingers.”

Our sage plant is neglected year after year, summer after summer, yet still thrives prolifically. The boys play outside and absentmindedly tear off their soft, heather-like leaves and ask me, “Is this edible?” Yes. Sage is rich in antioxidants, with a long list of health benefits. Sage possesses anti-Alzheimer’s power, in helping to maintain brain’s concentration of the neurochemical acetylcholine.

Sage quiets the nerves.

A tree dies. Then, another tree, hidden in its shadows, thrives. So much sorrow visited us this year, that some nights I’m afraid to fall asleep. Easier, sometimes, to stay awake and watch your thoughts, track them, and not let them get too out of control.

Sage is used to flavor ale, beer, and wine to make them more intoxicating. When you bite into a fried sage leaf, there is the crisp bite, the salt of a potato chip, followed by a burst of flavors and smells, that linger after the leaf is gone. Eating sage creates a sensual experience not found with any other herb. Sage makes you want to fall into the sleep, eat your food, and to start feeling your way through your body again, so that you can be restored.

Aromatherapists say Sage purifies, reverses, and clears away negative energies. It allows little trees to thrive in the spot where the big tree died.

How to fry Sage Leaves:

Ingredients

• About 20 large fresh sage leaves
• Olive or canola oil
• Salt

Method

• Rinse sage leaves and lay flat on a double layer of paper towels to dry.
• Heat oil into a fying pan to a depth of 1/4 inch.
• When oil is hot, lower heat to medium and add sage leaves in a single layer.
• Fry just until oil stops bubbling around leaves, 10 to 15 seconds (do not let brown).
• Remove leaves from oil and let them drain on paper towels.
• Sprinkle with salt.
• Wait for clearing

I started to enter the times on our family calendar of the three graduations I will attend on June 9th, but I got stuck on the first one – that kindergarten one. He’ll stand at the front of the class, wearing his black cardboard mortarboard, and I’ll remember the intimate lunches we shared of poached egg sandwiches, tuna with capers and sometimes, simply the warm comfort of cream of wheat. My eyes will well with tears, but then I’ll smile when I realize this is his day. Standing as tall and proud as a dandelion puff, still perfectly spherical, untouched by a blast of wind.

Out of the corner of my eye, I’ll take in the moms, dads, grandparents who are there for the other children. I’ll pretend I don’t suffer from  her absence — her failure to keep up with our unspoken tradition, which started with me, of grandmothers attending their grandchildren’s kindergarten graduations.

My grandma was at my graduation, 43 years ago. I have the proof in my own black and white photograph of that day – that’s her arm covered in the white cardigan sweater – must have been a chilly May day. That was the start of our tradition.

Picking up the phone to invite my mom to my children’s milestones was like adding a pinch of freshly ground nutmeg to the creamy béchamel sauce. It makes everything a bit nicer. Her presence there, as the grownup, required less of me; she would retain details I may miss. If some of these treasures are filed away in her heart, they’re safe, like an external hard drive, and my mind is free for other things.

Five years ago, she was absent, or occupied, when my son wore the cardboard mortarboard. She was just a few miles away in a hospital bed. Unconscious. The night before, I whispered in her ear, “Mom, wake up. He’s graduating from kindergarten tomorrow. I know you won’t want to miss this.” The next day, I watched him wear the mortarboard, while I kept one eye on the door, waiting for her to walk through at any minute.

She didn’t. Then, another son went through the same rite of passage without her. Because she’s not showing up, I have to pay close attention; I can’t rely on her to notice a thing. I’ll be fully present: savoring every moment so they can be filed whole and complete, in my heart. Maybe someday, I’ll have the chance to catch up with her to tell her all that happened on the day the last one graduated from kindergarten.

I sent an email off to my Dad today to share some crushing sad news that makes me just want to throw in the towel, cry uncle, and say, I’ve had enough. His response:

Well I guess that just made a gloomy day worse.
I am so sorry.
I know that doesn’t do much to help your feelings.
Love, Dad

Now, I’m even more upset that this bad news had to ruin my Dad’s day. Maybe, I shouldn’t have told him. Yet, with only one parent left, it means the world to me to matter so much to this one person. And, oh Dad. You’re wrong about this not doing much to help my feelings.

Before I write my column for the newspaper, I give myself a “heads up” that I need an idea. Then, I start the laundry, clean the bathrooms, cook dinner and do yoga while I wait for the inspiration.  I expect the idea to come barreling in — hitting me over the head with a ton of bricks. But it rarely does. Usually it’s a whisper; I whisper that I push aside.  The idea grows, and it starts to integrate itself into the laundry, the bathroom, the dinner and the yoga; until it is those things. At this point, the idea is pounding in my head in complete sentences, and there is no other choice but to write about this whisper that now has a megaphone blasting through my mind.

So, this month, the story of Brownie, the school bunny that met her demise in our home, can creeping in like a whisper. I gave the story the wings it wanted, and sent the article off over a week ago. Only yesterday did it dawn on me that perhaps writing a story that shows up during the Holy Week about a bunny was probably quite brilliant. But writing about a bunny that dies? What was I thinking? My embarrassment overwhelmed me. Why didn’t I make the connection?

Thank you to all of you who are stopping me in the stores, the street and at the school to thank me for the story. Because, the truth is, giving kids the honor of telling them the truth about death makes them feel like the important people they really are. That’s a story for any season. Thank you to all those people out there who helped me see this.

Here’s the column:

We carried Brownie out of the elementary school building on a Friday, while she snuggled among the newspaper clippings in the bottom of her cage. The halls were filled with well-wishers, saying “Bye Brownie,” veteran hosts, who promised, “Brownie is lots of fun.” So many people knew Brownie, that I wondered if maybe the bunny had already visited at least half of the families in the school with children grades 3 and up.

Brownie’s care package included a scrapbook, including photos and notes from previous sleepovers; a care instruction book; and a supply of food. Bunnies like to chew everything from electrical wires to shoes, I learned, so it would be best to keep her contained when she’s not being held. She also arrived with her own portable outdoor fence, and when the kids pleaded to take Brownie outside, I had a panic vision of myself chasing the bunny up and down the streets. By Sunday morning, I feared, we’d be at Kinko’s making “Wanted” posters with Brownie’s face (scanned from the scrapbook) plastered on the top, and my phone number below.

Alas, a bunny chase was not to be my fate for the weekend. Things started out well – Brownie was rotated from lap to lap, in 15-minute increments during the Saturday morning cartoon ritual. Carrots were pulled from the refrigerator for “special snacks.” By Saturday night, Brownie, like me, seemed tired from all the excitement of living in a house full of boys.

When I tucked my 3rd grader into bed that night, a tear dropped out of his eye. He wasn’t ready for Sunday, he wasn’t ready for Monday, and certainly wasn’t ready to send Brownie back to school. “Lucky for you,” I said. “We’re on the schedule again in two more weeks.” I left him with a smile on his face, and eyes that were finally closing.

Alone in the living room, I heard a crash. Brownie was doing back flips, forcefully enough to make the cage jump a few inches across the floor. Her acrobatics lasted less than a minute before the silence came… the stillness… the missing breaths… the lost heartbeat. Betsy O’Brochta, Brownie’s “mom” drove over as soon as she hung up the phone. As hard as those moments were for her, she was thinking just as quickly as me about what we could tell the kids to “ease their pain.” “Maybe,” we said, “Brownie wasn’t feeling well. So we called the vet, and Brownie died there?” Maybe.

Now I finally had the exception to that cardinal rule at First Community Church Preschool, “always tell children the truth.” Could I tell this story with the conviction I needed? The idea of shielding him from the pain was as comforting as pulling the blankets around him to tuck him in. Yet, it left me feeling uneasy. I sent an email that night to Holly Cavallaro, a teacher at FCC, saying, “Just to spare my son’s feelings, I’m burying the truth.” Her response surprised me; yet made the entire event crystal clear. “You’ll be telling this story for years,” she explained. “If you don’t tell him the truth, you’ll always have to change the story when he’s around. Eventually, he’ll learn this from someone else. He’ll be hurt again.” Why not say, “Isn’t it nice that Brownie felt safe enough to spend his last day with people who really loved her?”

The wooden trains have been buried in their storage tub since that sick day when he built an un-Christmas train last year.  I made a good-faith effort to pull out the train and placed the tracks under the real Christmas tree this year; but the train was not embraced. In fact, it was simply ignored.  I even slid the already-decorated Christmas tree right across the floor to allow more “building” room for the track.  (Not one ornament was lost in the move.) Space, apparently, was not the problem. He had a change of heart.  Just like little Jackie Paper, one day he just found other things to occupy his time, besides trains.

When we opened the book to Puff, and sang the song about the little boy who left his childhood friend behind, I never thought we were reading a story about us.

So I asked him, “You’re really done with this train, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he answered, without looking up from his latest Bionicle creation.

“Well, then, maybe we should pack it up , and find some other little boy who’d like to play with this train.”

“No, Mom,” he said. “Let me tell you how it’s gonna be.  When I’m all grown up, and I’m a Grandpa, you’re going to keep the train around, built all around your house so that you can remember me.”