And then they graduate

You know what it is, it’s the ordinary days. The Wednesdays. The ones where we sleep like usual, wake like usual. We run late, we look for clean socks, I slice a fruit for snack. And then, they graduate. Unceremoniously, a dozen small ways - a kind gesture here, a deep breath there, maybe they finally wrote three sentences instead of two. I won't wait to weep. When my son succeeds it won't be all at once; it rarely is. When his name is placed on a diploma it will be because he carried it there, one step at a time for years. Honestly, I don't see what he sees when he walks into class, but I believe him. It's so hard to arrive sometimes, so hard to put up with even ourselves. But we are beauty and we are beast, who will love us if not us. And so today, today when you are wild and unafraid of yourself, I celebrate you. And today, when you are deliberate enough, gentle enough, I celebrate you. And today, when you are still the same son I sent to school this morning, when it strengthens you but doesn’t change you, I celebrate you. I celebrate this the most.