— For K., whose story this is
It begins like this: You drop your son off at kindergarten. His first day of school. You think that nothing in your life will be as big as this: the moment he drops your hand, he who has clung to you since birth, since that first breath of air, first scream, first frantic rooting for the breast. Your breast. His empty hands beating the air, demanding that first nourishment, that first intake of life. Your job: to guide him to it.
In the worst and best of all imaginings there is loss. You take a deep breath. The air as it enters your lungs is starched with August heat. His hand squirms in yours; you make yourself let go. You ache to take it back, but you’ve brought him this far: to the primal launch, the first milestone. You find you are breathing with him without meaning to, in sync with the air as it enters and leaves his lungs. You watch him walk away. The heavy school door swings shut between you, and you are left alone, facing an empty yard that moments before was alive with children. He has left your side. His life is just beginning.
