Soapbox

Apron Strings

I like to watch them
from where I wait in my car
as they climb off the school bus ahead of me,
hopping down that last step
book bag on one shoulder,
the jacket their mother insisted they take
but probably knew they wouldn’t wear
trailing behind them through the leaves.
The little ones bounce and hoot and dance
and dash over to their mothers waiting at the corner.
And whether the child is boisterous or sulky,
whether she is pushing a stroller, talking on her phone
or grabbing for the dragging jacket
the mother always reaches out and touches the child:
a hand on the shoulder or top of the head,
a playful swat to the backside as they run past-
but she always touches, reclaims her child.
You are mine.
We were separate, but  now you have returned to me
and we are connected once again.
I count  you as my own,
under my wing once more

I remember those days, that feeling,
the tiny, secret relief that once again
the world had taken away- and then returned
my most precious possession,
unharmed.
My children still come home from time to time,
pulling up in their car,
dumping bags and shedding shoes near the front door
sometimes still dragging their jackets
And I still reach out to touch them as they return
because I know now that they are changed,
and sometimes harmed in ways I cannot control
during their time away from me.

But this is the way of life.
 A thousand times it takes your child away
and returns them to you different-
wiser, quieter, sometimes sadder,
less prone to bounce and dance,
carrying burdens far larger than a backpack full of books and homework.
Still, you reclaim them,
because always, they are yours.