Little Signs

We completed another year of school last week. L completed first grade and O completed preschool. Both children attend the same Catholic school which is part of one Catholic school system within our city. I attended another Catholic grade school within that system. My mother attended the same school my children attend as well as another Catholic grade school within that system. My father-in-law attended Catholic grade school along with my mom and they graduated the same year.

When my husband and I returned to our hometown nearly five years ago, we decided to 'try out' the Catholic schools by enrolling L in preschool there. Fortunately, we've been mostly happy with the school and L now has four years of Catholic schooling under her belt. While I didn't attend the particular school L and O attend, there is a level of familiarity for me because each Catholic school is under the same umbrella. Some of the teachers attended high school within the same era as I did and many of the current parents were my classmates or my brother's classmates. At times, it's a bit too close for comfort. But usually, there's comfort in knowing the history of the building and its people.

L's gym teacher was my gym teacher. Sometime between my school age years and L beginning school, Mr. A switched Catholic grade schools. Personally, I don't recall feeling such affinity toward this man that the current students now adore. Mr. A is certainly now one of the favorite teachers at L's school. With his high fives, his contests to name Santa's reindeer in order, his welcoming bellow of each child by name as they enter the building in the morning, and his 'jokester' ways, it's easy to see why they love him.

The last day of school, L, O, N, and I personally delivered teacher gifts. As we entered the gym, Mr. A blew his whistle to halt the junior high dodge ball game and bellowed L's name in his booming voice. L gave Mr. A his potted plant which Mr. A said he would plant in his garden immediately upon returning home. Mr. A turned to me and said, "Did you have a good year?" I shrugged and said no. Mr. A looked into my eyes and said, "I know. We had years exactly like that. Exactly." I said, "Really? Do you know about E?" "Yep", he said. "Exactly. Our daughter's name was also E. And we lost a son."

I told Mr. A I had no idea and I thanked him for telling me and for admitting how hard it can be to live in the world. As Mr. A's eyes teared up, he said it's been over fifteen years for him and his wife. But, it's still hard. He said it takes a long time to function in the world again and it never becomes easy. I appreciated his honesty and that he made no attempt to encourage me to 'get over it.'

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At mass this morning, L sat playing with something in her purse. I finally looked down and saw her holding a blue pen. I asked her what it was and where she got it. She said it was her favorite pen and that it showed up in the driveway adjoining ours. I looked at the pen again and read its inscription: M Funeral Home, Serving You for over 100 Years. The funeral home who cared for E. The funeral home whose representative came to my hospital room not just once, but three times to check on my well being. The funeral home whose representative came to our private graveside service and took pictures of our family without us having to ask.


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After mass, we went to the grocery store. At checkout, O pointed to the ceiling with excitement as he spotted a lone fly-away balloon. A butterfly.