Instead of kindergarten graduation, we have Zoom calls. Instead of hugging his friends goodbye, he waves. Instead of face-to-face adventure, fun, and memories, they have technology.
This is certainly not the kindergarten year I envisioned. It’s not the kindergarten year he’s imagined and dreamed of.
It’s painful and emotional.
It’s uncertainty mixed with hope.
It’s grief mixed with gratitude.
It’s a reality that feels surreal.
It’s feelings of joy and feelings of sadness. Both at the same time, as if they are some solidified union, only traveling together.
This was kindergarten. This was his first year of school. It will be one he never forgets, for reasons we could have never planned, or seen coming.
I find myself lost in tears and searching for hope. For light at the end of the tunnel. For less shadows, and more sun.
I don’t have to search hard. As I wipe the tears, I hear his sweet friends laughing and giggling and enjoying each other.
They are the faces of hope. The faces of light. The faces of joy and resilience.
Tomorrow he will wake up a kindergarten graduate. He will be announced as a first grader. They all will.
We will smile. We will celebrate, and we’ll commemorate a year that has taught us lessons that were never written on any lesson plan created by a teacher. And that is both a harsh reality and a joyful hope for the future.
