The first day

Right now, the house is nearly silent.  There is the rhythmic turning of the dryer, the swishing of the dishwasher, but that is all.

There is no overly loud laugh track from the TV, no beeping and clicking from the computers, no squeals of delight from the pool.

There is only me, and the daily tasks of running a home.

Those tasks continue on, made easier by the emptiness.  There is no one here to dirty the dishes I've washed, to use the beach towels I've laundered.  There is no one putting feet on the table, or leaving wrappers on the floor.

There is nobody here.

Nobody is fighting.  No one is yelling.  No one is whining.   No one is asking me to referee.

Nobody is asking for a snack.  Nobody is reading Harry Potter.  Nobody wants to roller skate.

No one is here to swim.  No one is here to play chase with the dog.  Nobody to make the empty beds.

Nobody has Legos all over the floor.  No one is bored.  No one wants his brother to play. No one is playing alone in his room.

No one is complaining about the rainy day.  No one is making vulgar jokes.  No one is the Mad Pantster.

It is not a tragedy.  It's just growing up.  I keep telling myself.  It doesn't matter at all that I forgot to take a photo.  As if a digital imprint of this day will make it last, or bring it back to me when I look back to it in the future.

It is not a tragedy.  Everyone is ok.  Smart and sweet and handsome and healthy.  Everyone has goals and success and achievements yet to be had.  Everyone has a potentially beautiful life ahead of them.  Everyone will be back, of course. 

But for now, it's just me and Nobody.  Sitting in this house.  On this first/last day.  This last first day of elementary school.  This first day of reclaiming my house from the wild beasts of summer.  This first day of the real world.

Nobody and I will get along fine in a couple of weeks.  I'll grow to cherish this time to myself.  By the end of the school, I'll be apprehensive about the prospect of three whole months with Everybody back.

But I know that this is my practice.  This couple of weeks with Nobody is instructive to my future.  Every year, a little less of Everybody and a little more time with Nobody.  Until that time in the not-too distant years ahead, when it will be not just the boy who leaves the house, but his things as well.  It will be the things he cherishes then, I don't even know what those things will be.  

Then, too, Nobody and I will be here in the house.  With Legos and Harry Potter and Percy Jackson and Nobody will play or read those things.  They will be the left behind tokens of childhood.

Everyone will come back in whirling holiday trips and long weekends, bringing laundry and shopping lists and friends and girlfriends and wives and children.  Nobody and I will be ready, like the graying dog in the Iams commercial, eager to have our Everyone home. 

These first few days with Nobody remind me about that near future.  Nobody and I aren't ready,  nor is Everyone else. We're not supposed to be ready yet.  That's why we have this practice, and yet.

M gave me Harry Potter to cite here.  The last page of the last chapter of the last book.  An appropriate disconnect with this, the first day.  But, of course, this citation makes me even more keenly aware of Nobody.  Everybody read or reread this book this summer.  Everyone got to see the movies.  Everyone was sad that this would be the end of Harry Potter.  There will be no more Potter surprises.  No more suspense.  No more Hogwarts. 

Fifteen years ago, the first book was released.  I read the series then, before kids, when the pages still smelled of ink, and I've reread the series with my kids.  And, fifteen years from now, perhaps I'll reread them again.  The books' pages are all feathered and fingerprinted.  The covers are tattered and a bit greasy.  They books are well-loved.  And that makes them even better.  I reread them now, knowing my kids' favorite parts, their most beloved characters, the parts that gave them nightmares and the parts that made them cry.  The books are dearer yet for being shared.

As the famed Hogwarts Express pulled out from Charing Cross Station, Harry walked alongside it, watching his son's thin face, already ablaze with excitement.  Harry kept smiling and waving even though it was like a little bereavement, watching his son glide away from him.  The last trace of steam evaporated in the autumn air.  The train rounded a corner.  Harry's hand was still raised in farewell.