Ducks

Dear Meazi,

My alarm went off at 5:40 this morning. I wanted to make sure we had enough time to have a proper breakfast before your violin concert this morning. You dressed in a darling red Christmas dress your nana bought you last year. You wore shiny black Mary Jane’s that your good friend Yene passed down to you, and brand new white bobby socks. You looked a little like Norman Rockwell’s Ruby Bridges, skinny legs, braids pulled back, face scrubbed clean, a determined stride in your step. You did very well. You stood behind a pretty tall girl so it was hard to see you, but I saw your bow move gracefully back and forth. After your three songs were over, you moved your head so that you could find us in the audience. Your father, Melese, and I were in the front row. You spotted us and burst into a big wide grin. You were proud. So were we. You handed me your violin case and hurried off to be with the rest of your classmates. You didn’t want to miss PE. Daddy, Melese, and I left your school. Daddy got into his truck and went to work. Melese and I drove to his school.

Dear Melese,

 Today was your last day of school before the holidays. We arrived late and immediately joined the other preschoolers for some songs. They had you and a few other kiddos stand up so they could sing you Happy Birthday. As a New Year’s baby the wanted to make sure they got a chance to wish you a good one. Afterwards I walked you back to your classroom and kissed you goodbye. I went to the restaurant next door to have a cup of coffee and to catch up on some e-mail. I opened my computer and read about the shooting in Connecticut. Tears rolled down my face as I glanced across to the play yard where I knew you were safely playing. A little while later, I packed up my things and walked back to your school. I found you stacking milk crates outside with your most favorite friend. I walked back into your classroom and took a spot on the circle rug anticipating the goodbye meeting that would start in just a few minutes. A classmate’s little brother sat next to me, a two–year old who is so, so, so ready to be in school like his big brother. His mom had just removed his sandy, muddy, socks, clues that he had enjoyed another Friday community day with his big brother. I couldn’t stop staring at his tiny toes. My eyes welled up as I thought about all of the murdered kindergartners in Connecticut and all of those tiny, tiny toes. Kahlil Gibran’s words flashed in my head, ‘Your children are not your children’. I thought about how none of you belong to any of us, and about how all of you belong to all of us, and about how as parents we are responsible for the caring of all of the children within  our reach, should they need us. I grabbed your classmate’s brother’s tiny pink toe. I couldn’t help myself. I smiled at him and he leaned his head toward my shoulder smiling. His mom stood behind us, busy breastfeeding the newest addition to their family, boy number three.  On the rug in the next spot over was the darling blonde girl who always wore sparkly shoes. Today was her very last day. Her family decided to move to Seattle and they wouldn’t be returning in the New Year. Then you finally ran in Melese. You plopped down in my lap and grabbed my hand. Your hand was freezing from being outside all morning. I put my cheek on yours. I opened my oversized sweater and wrapped your body in with mine. I took a breath and knew you were safe for at least this one deep breath.  The teachers began the songs. Your school has a no cell phone rule. I am almost certain your teachers hadn’t heard about the shooting yet. They began this song:

Five little ducks
Went out one day
Over the hill and far away
Mother duck said
"Quack, quack, quack, quack."
But only four little ducks came back.
Four little ducks
Went out one day
Over the hill and far away
Mother duck said
"Quack, quack, quack, quack."
But only three little ducks came back.
Three little ducks
Went out one day
Over the hill and far away
Mother duck said
"Quack, quack, quack, quack."
But only two little ducks came back.
Two little ducks
Went out one day
Over the hill and far away
Mother duck said
"Quack, quack, quack, quack."
But only one little duck came back.
One little duck
Went out one day
Over the hill and far away
Mother duck said
"Quack, quack, quack, quack."
But none of the five little ducks came back.
Sad mother duck
Went out one day
Over the hill and far away
The sad mother duck said
"Quack, quack, quack."
And all of the five little ducks came back.

I held you close as we sang with your friends. I scanned the room, taking in the faces of these children, their parents and your teachers. I tried not to cry.

On our way home I positioned the rear view mirror so that I could just see you. I wasn’t letting you out of my sight. At home I gave you whatever you asked for. First those Annie’s shells with cheese, the ones in the purple box you call bunny mac, and then the giant piece of candy cane I had been disallowing all week. “Take it, please,” I said. “Eat it up.” We opened a huge package. It was party stuff for your ‘Dolphin’ birthday party. You said dolphins were beautiful and that that is why you wanted them for your party. “Ok,” we said. You stacked the plates, and cups, and picked up a party favor and said, “This one is for William.” William is the friend you love the most.

We left to get Meazi. When they finally called her name in the carpool line, I began to cry again. I couldn’t wait to see her. She bounded down the stairs and ran to the car. “What took you so long mom? I was the last second grader waiting.” “I’m sorry,” I said. Melese, you turned to her and said, “Meazi, I ate your peppermint. The big one.” I had forgotten that was Meazi’s piece. She burst into tears. I think she was upset about the candy, but it was also Friday afternoon and she is always exhausted on Fridays at 3:30. I reached my hand back and put it inside her new bobby sock. 

I drove home like that, you, Melese, in my rear view, and you, Meazi, with my fingers on your ankle.  I drove carefully and graciously, for a change.

I brought you both in. Meazi you cried again when you found the minuscule scrap of peppermint your brother left you. I made you both hot cocoas. As you put your lunch box in the kitchen I couldn’t help but think about all of those moms and dads and loved ones cleaning out the lunchboxes of children they would never see again.

Ducks that didn’t come back.

How will we keep our ducks safe?  Our violinists and dolphin lovers? Our ballerinas and baseball players?  All of our ducks?

How will we do it?