Almost four years ago, I wrote Milestones. Here we are again, at another one.
This one hits hard. In spurts, like the others. Sometimes when I expect them. Mostly when I don’t. But they’re hard. There’s the time of the first orchestra concert of the year held in the cafeteria because rules said they couldn’t use the auditorium. The original plan was for them to play in the amphitheater, but a football game was scheduled at the same time. As usual, sports win. Not all students were able to make rehearsals, so attendance was sparse, but on they played. It’s hard not to think about “how it used to be.” The tears come in the car driving back home in the dark.
One of the first concerts back in the auditorium was postponed twice. Once because of dreadful rules. Again. The second time because of the Great Texas Freeze. They did make it back, but low audience attendance (more rules) felt odd and no one congregated in the lobby afterward. I wondered if this would be the last performance.
It’s hard not to get choked up at the “Countdown to Graduation” drive through celebration to pick up the senior t-shirt and goodies. This is is not what’s expected of senior year experiences. Poor kids. We didn’t attend the drive through parade last weekend sending everyone off from locked-out of school virtual learning, into the big, beautiful—or is it cruel—world in the best way possible to commemorate the end of the first 12 years of education. No tears shed on that one.
Maybe I’m getting better at rolling with change, but it’s hard not to be selfish with this milestone. Two more weeks. It’ll be okay. I think I’m fine now. Until the last orchestra concert. This is the last time I’ll drive to the auditorium. Rules required tickets, but all available spaces “sold out.” I prepared myself, but forgot to bring tissue. A mask makes a good alternative.
I decide not to take video of this last performance. It’s getting recorded. I relax and enjoy the concert. Then my kid takes the stage and they play a piece he composed. And I cry, swallowing the little noises that come with overwhelming moments of life. This is what it’s like to birth a teen into adulthood.