I spend an hour copying a prayer into my journal. I’ve never liked rote prayers, but this one isn’t like any liturgy I’ve heard before. Even in the silence of writing it out, my spirit shivers and wakes.
She brings Baby Groot to the car and stops to show him the roses on the way and they both take a hearty sniff. Later on, she shows him the toy bin on the front porch. Still later, she shows him her night-night book. I’m weirdly proud of her.
I have a minor administrative fit in the bookstore. The shelves clearly started in the usual order, but no one has tended it in far too long. Such alphabetical unkindness irks me on my best day; today, I wonder if the neglect of this particular section is intentional. It’s not a popular place to be seen these days, after all.
We talk about the separation policy while watching the children play. As the token American, I’m the one they look to when the President does something utterly un-Canadian. They want me to explain, as if I can divine his motives from the lines of nationality trailing behind me. I never have the answers they’re looking for.
Tomorrow is the last day. Although we’re all hopeful, I know in my knower that it’s a real goodbye, not just goodbye until next fall. The close of a chapter no one wants to end.
I consolidate my stuff into her backpack–including my travel mug half full of coffee and the gift we drove an hour to buy–sling it onto my back and begin the going-inside process. You know how this ends.
The toy kitchen is perfect. I’m uncomfortable with how much it cost, but it’s exactly the right size and design and of course, she loves it, so I decide to receive without guilt.