It recently dawned on me that the Missing Project is never done. It will never be checked off. I will always miss James and there is no way to skip this part. To speed it up, or jump to the end. It’s my soul’s laundry hamper. The Missing Project is for always.
Some days everything is clean and put away. And some days I’ve just got a bunch of piles, haphazardly sorted. They haven’t yet invented a high efficiency front loader for this particular project. Instead I’ve created my own wash cycle of walking, meditating, and writing. So… I intend to share more personal stories as it seems to help release its grip on me. It’s just one person’s experience and everyone is different. Maybe one day, this will help Jake and Nate make more sense of this time. Maybe it will be helpful to someone somewhere, someday. Maybe it’s just for me.
In early June, both Jacob and Nate graduated… or as they say ’round here, they were “promoted.” Jake will be a freshman next year *gasp* and Nate will be a middle schooler *double gasp*. Jacob’s ceremony was the very first ever held at Laguna, which made it special. The pandemic Zoomers who drove past their sixth grade graduations while standing through the sunroof needed a real day. With real chairs and real speakers. I especially appreciated the teacher who recognized all the people who couldn’t be with us, and then sang an impressive a cappella Auld Lang Syne.
Nate’s graduation was more emotional for me. We’ve been a part of Pacheco for seven years. It’s just one street over from where James and I first met. Memories of Nate’s first year in kinder came flooding back, especially of the week after James’ diagnosis. The Monday after, I remember standing outside Nate’s classroom under the covered walkway. We were still in shock. We pulled his teacher aside and spoke aloud what had happened. I couldn’t feel my feet as we walked away.
I realize I need a quiet day to say goodbye to our little school. To this chapter. So one weekday morning, I go back. First I eat an early lunch at the park. I’m not sure I want to do this. I’m definitely sure I shouldn’t do it hangry.
I can’t help but think that we didn’t make it. That we’d come up short. Just six months shy from that day in kindergarten to now. I spend some time on the grass outside the kinder classroom. The sky is a deep blue. Bishop’s Peak watches over me, as it always has. I walk across the blacktop to the field where we’d come on weekends because it had “big goals.” Nate and I would trade-off as goalie and striker. Sometimes James and Jacob would play, sometimes they’d watch from the shade. I pull up my pictures from 2016 on my phone. I mean if you’re going to cry alone on an empty playground, why not go all out, right?
And what I notice is the contrast from then to now.
The boys were in car seats. Now they’re in the front seat.
They had little jack-o-lantern smiles with gaps and loose teeth. Now they both studiously care for their Invisalign.
They wore matching swimsuits and still had Keen’s, from the days they stopped bikes by dragging their toes across the asphalt. Now they both baby their Air Jordans.
I watched a video of Nate playing soccer. It was before we even knew he liked soccer. His jersey was #5. Can I even remember that?
They had grown and learned and changed so much. James knew who they are and who they’ll be. And they knew their dad.
Back when I was sitting on the grass outside our kindergarten class, I took a deep breath, and one last look at the hallway where we’d had that life changing conversation. There on the ground, in sidewalk chalk, it read: Someone was here.
Someone was here. We were here. And it was really special.
Pacheco Elementary | Bishop’s Peak
Someone was Here
Big hugs.