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“Are you excited? Is there anything special you’re looking forward to?” Maggie rolls onto her side and looks at me.
“Not really.”
“What about your new clothes? Are you excited to show your friends the new outfits you and Aunt Claire picked out?”
“I guess.”
She’s not giving me anything to work with. Closing my eyes, I search my memories. How did I feel as a kid starting first grade? The only memory I piece together is playing with new friends. Grasping at straws, I toss her a final question.
“What do you think will be the most fun thing you do tomorrow?”
“The library.”
Maggie shocks me with her response. Over the last two weeks, we’ve visited the library several times. We’ve checked out books. We’ve read books. Why does the library seem like the most exciting part of school?
“What about the library?”
Now primed to chat, she explains, “Rainey said the librarian’s nice—the one at the big library is a little mean.”
I can’t argue with her logic. “It’ll be awesome, Mags.”
I sweep back a few strands of hair framing Maggie’s face and kiss her goodnight. Tomorrow’s her big day.
Maggie’s eyes bulge when she rounds the corner into the kitchen and finds the first-day-of-school feast laid out by Claire.
“Is this all forme?”
Claire insisted all of Maggie’s favorite breakfast foods were present: waffles with chocolate syrup, Fruity Pebbles, bananas, and avocado toast—a reminder in the not-too-distant past Maggie was a California kid. I’m not sure how Claire knew about the avocado toast, but the sentiment is touching.
The same girl who’d been too nervous to eat before her playdate last week now shovels a bite of every food laid before her into her mouth.
“Slow down, take a breath.” I can’t let her choke on her first day of school.
Stuffed from breakfast, we work together to dress her for school. I learned from disastrous mornings of the past that preparation the night before is the key to avoiding a morning of meltdowns, so last night, Maggie and Claire curated a first-day-of-school outfit together before bed. I provided feedback when asked, but let them take the wheel. Seeing the two of them create memories together, while selecting the perfect shoes to match the pink t-shirt Maggie declared a winner, is unforgettable.
Monitoring the time, Maggie pulls on her chosen outfit, and I take out last night’s braids, pulling the top half of her silky, inky hair into a small bun on the crown of her head. Her remaining hair hangs in waves thanks to the overnight braids, landing just below her shoulders. She looks beautiful.
An arrow of sorrow wounds my heart. Today’s Maggie’s first day of school without her mom. We’ve wintered many firsts since January: Maggie’s birthday, Valentine’s Day, and Mother’s Day. Each heartbreaking in its own right, but Maggie’s sixth birthday—only three months after Hannah died—was grueling. Today’s significance doesn’t seem to register for her; she’s in a great mood this morning and hasn’t mentioned her mom.
She grabs her backpack, almost as big as she is, and we’re off. I DJ the drive from the farm to school with a special playlist I pulled together for today. “Call Me Maybe” blares through the speakers as we leave the gravel driveway and the first beats of Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” carries us into the parking lot of Liberty Elementary.
Shockingly, the parking lot is more disastrous than a California Costco on a Sunday afternoon. Parents circle their cars with desperate prayers that they’ll somehow locate a space they missed the first time they drove by. The lucky ones who secure a parking spot make their way to the school’s entrance, holding their child’s hand, or chasing after the ones who run amok.
School buses arrive and try parting the school entrance like a whale in a pool of guppies. The drivers honk and signal for pedestrians to move out of the way. The hysteria stirs anticipation I remember from my school years. The commotion causes my already timid daughter to drag slowly behind as we walk. I’m just as nervous as she is, but I can’t let it show.
Chaotic energy carries us through the halls. Parents drag kids along and search for classrooms, restrooms, or children who’ve taken off in the wrong direction. Finally, we locate the door to her new classroom, plastered with ladybugs bearing each student’s name. I’m thrilled to see Rainey sitting at a desk in the room.
We missed the school’s ‘meet the teacher night’ because of how late I registered Maggie. So our introduction with her new teacher is hurried as other parents vie for her attention. The desk beside Rainey is empty, and Maggie claims it, requesting help to unload her heavy backpack.
Across from me, I finally register Noah squatting on the floor beside her daughter. There’s a fear in her tourmaline green eyes that mimics my own. We nod at each other and return to the task at hand. By 8 a.m., I’ve dropped my daughter off for her first school day in Kentucky without either of us shedding a tear—success.
I fight through the throngs of exiting parents in the hallway covered in posters, streamers, and bulletin boards of every imaginable color. I hear a shout as I slip out the heavy front door, but I can’t make out what’s said over the incessant noise still reverberating down the hall. On the school’s front steps, I turn and find Noah squinting at me. The sun’s bright for early September; it reflects off her pale skin as it pinkens it in the heat. I throw a squinty smile back at her.
Noah’s effortless beauty is on display. Her freckles stand at attention under the sunshine. She’s untouched by the inches of makeup I see on some parents this morning. Her choice of clothes appears haphazard, making me laugh at how they stand in stark opposition to the skin-tight jeans and low-cut shirts surrounding us. I’d pick her laid-back aesthetic any day.
Practically a dress, Noah’s oversized t-shirt hangs mid-thigh. She paired it with sweatpants spattered with dried paint, and slip-on sandals. Her chestnut hair, which I’ve only ever seen down, is twisted into a precarious pile on her head.
“I’d ask you what the chances of seeing you here are, but I’m learning you see a lot of the same faces when you live in a small town.”
