Coming Home

 

Yesterday I picked Waylon up from school like I do most days recently. It’s become one of my favorite daily activities, I enjoy the calmness of just waiting in the car rider line, it makes me smile to see all the children tumble out of the building at the same time, each with their own little expressions, uniform and bookbag slight differences to mark their individuality, and their excited, sullen, focused, or completely un-focused demeanor. Hearing “Waylon!” being called and all the sudden he pops up with a smile and rushes into the backseat as if shot out of a cannon, words unleashed with velocity while I am trying to navigate exiting the line, making sure he’s seated and belted, and welcoming him to the ride home in a moment of chaos.

We’ll talk about school “How was today? Great, good, okay, or bad?” He’s thoughtful and then states I need to make a Very Good category as well because it was almost great but better than good and that most days are Very Good. We talk about his lunch, most days he says he does not remember but with slight prodding he’s able to describe it in detail and will let me know what he chose not to eat but hardly ever complains about his food choices. Did anything funny happen? Did anyone get in trouble? Usually no. Not since the infamous Pants Falling Down on one his classmate that amazingly happened not once but twice two days in a row, does anything extraordinary happen.

 As we were crossing one of the bridges on the road coming home, Waylon commented on the boats in the water and all that was below. I mentioned to him the thought I’ve had countless times since moving to Savannah – the thought that I LIVE at this place where people use their time and money simply to visit, that this is my home and my children’s home, is truly amazing. I never wanted any of the kids to take it for granted and I’ve mentioned it to them all at some point although I’m sure my vocal musings often go un-noticed, just the proverbial “wah wah wah” Charlie brown background noise of someone speaking whose words do not matter. However, Waylon seemed thoughtful about this, so I continued on.

“When I was a little girl, I used to come here to Savannah sometimes and visit my Granny, Granny Faith,”

“Her name was Faith? Like Faith! Like your daughter Faith!”

“Yep, I loved my Granny sooo much that I named my little girl the same name! I loved visiting her and coming to her town and loved visiting here for so many years that I used to think what if I lived here one day”

“And then you did”

Smiling ,“yes I did! And because I did, my kids moved here, and because I lived here then you were born here and now this is your town, and aren’t you so lucky to live here?”

I glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror, a little boy in a puffy jacket that seems too bulky for his small frame, his brown hair slightly messy above his big blue eyes watching out the window at the trees, buildings, island life that we were passing by, with a tiny uplift at the corner of his lips before he said “yeah” in his little sometimes gravelly tone with just a hint of wonder and appreciation.

Sometimes I wish the car ride was just a little bit longer.