For one, youd be able to read some of these words.
At night, instead of playing with dolls or drawing, you now curl up with a book.
(You remain convinced Gilbert deserved to be smacked with a slate.)
First grade is now on our horizon.
It should be less daunting than kindergarten, when we were both filled with such anxiety.
Back then, my worry narrowed down to the lunchtime hour, of all things.
I wondered if you would eat your lunch, or be too distracted by the people around you.
Most of all, I was afraid that your homesickness would overwhelm you.
Whats a word for homesickness, when your home is a person?
Because I have always worked from home, we never ate lunch apart.
Since you were tiny, youve always reached out with your feet to touch me under the table.
First my knees, nudged by your little toe pads.
An effortless seeking of the other.
But we had our lunchbox notes.
I liked thinking that youd be able to taste home in your lunch.
But to you, our notes were nearly as important as the lunch itself.
Did you remember the note?
you asked anxiously as I zipped up your lunchbox.
Even today, I include a new drawing of your favorite character.
Sometimes I color it in with crayons late at night, while watching television with Dad.
Other times, I paint using watercolors.
Always, someone new, no repeats, which has gotten difficult after hundreds of notes.
If I look at the stacks of drawings, I see a timeline of your interests.
Along with the picture, I add I <3 U, our pictogram of love.
Your friends have come to expect these notes.
Around the lunch table with its speckled gray top, they lean over, wondering who will appear next.
Sometimes, they add requests of their ownMinecraft!
Pokemon!but these notes are just for you.
I imagine you smiling as you tuck the note back in your lunchbox.
Another secret between us.
The note collection is so large that I tried to throw some away.
But youre indignant, snatching them back to hoard with the rest.
Sometimes I ask if youreallywant a lunchtime note.
I tell you we can stop anytime.
But again, that indignation:Of course I want them.
But she told me, My daughter just graduated from nursing school.
When I went to her apartment, I saw a cork board above her desk.
Shed pinned notes that I wrote for her back when she was in grade school.
I hope you do.
Ill keep the archive alive for us.
I can tell you how proud I am of you.
I can wish you a good day.
I can tell you how much I miss you.
But I think that you knew all that already, even with the simple drawings I included throughout kindergarten.