The first time I brought him, he was seated on my hip, hanging onto my shoulder as I ushered his brothers, Ford and Owen, into the school. From that perch, and while he chewed on his fist, he watched me use my one free hand to smooth flyaway hairs and help with backpacks. We took pictures in front of the sign and waved goodbye as Owen walked in with the rest of the nervous kindergartners and Ford joined his new class at the door.

There were donuts and coffee for kindergarten moms that day. He sat on the cool cafeteria floor and played with the straps of the purse at my feet while I talked with other moms. Ragweed was heavy in the air, so my eyes were swollen and bloodshot.

“Your first kindergartner is always the hardest,” another mother said as she patted my arm. She thought I was crying. I tried to explain that this wasn’t my first kindergartner, that I was suffering from allergies, but then I was chasing him around the cafeteria.

For two more years, day after day, he walked with me to the school, often handin hand, to pick up his brothers. When we got there too early, he played in the dirt or ran circles in the grass. He learned how to pump his legs on the swing set in the back. And he always smiled and ran when he saw his brothers come out with their backpacks.

For the first few years, his brothers ran to him, too.

We went to all the fall jubilees, spaghetti dinners and ice cream socials.

Then, finally, it was his school, too. Owen held his hand as he took him into the building. We took pictures in front of the sign, and I had two hands free to smooth flyaway hairs and help with backpacks.

Ford and Owen walked him home each day. I heard their voices as soon as they came around the corner, and I went to the sidewalk to meet them.

We went to all the fall jubilees, spaghetti dinners and ice cream socials.

It wasn’t Ford’s school anymore. And then it wasn’t Owen’s either. Still, it was his.

In first grade …

In first grade, he didn’t go into the building so willingly anymore. I had to peel him off me at the front step and then dash to my car while a teacher made distractions. I cried all the way to work. Every morning it was the same thing: cry, peel, dash, cry some more.

Ford and Owen came from their schools to get him at the end of each day. I heard their voices as soon as they came around the corner, and I went to the sidewalk to meet them.

We went to all the fall jubilees, spaghetti dinners and ice cream socials. But his older brothers didn’t go so willingly anymore. They stood awkwardly in the hallway, their hands stuffed in their pockets. I made them take pictures with their former teachers, who were now their brother’s teachers, too.

Soon, it was just Owen who went to the school to pick him up. He waited in the cafeteria with the other teenage siblings and stood stoically with his back against the wall when his little brother ran to him, his backpack bouncing up and down behind him.

I heard just one voice coming down the sidewalk now — a thin, small one excitedly talking about his day while his older brother, hands in pockets, mumbled in reply.

And then, there were no voices at all, just him riding home alone on his bike.

Last day of school …

On the last day of school, the whole family went to pick him up. For eight years, I had walked through the doors to bring late homework, forgotten lunches and a dry pair of socks. I had waited in the lobby when the kids were coming home sick. And I spent hours cutting construction paper in the office as a volunteer. Their dad surprised them on the playground when he came home from a deployment.

We had done all the fall jubilees, spaghetti dinners and ice cream socials.

And now it was over.

He didn’t run to us that day. His backpack didn’t bounce up and down on his back. He walked up to the four of us standing at the wall and said, “I’m going to go with a friend to see my new school now; can you take my backpack home?” He dropped the bag at my feet, yelled, “Bye,” over his shoulder and disappeared out the door with his friend.

“Well, that wasn’t how I thought this would go,” Ford said.

Ford left to play basketball. Owen went to the baseball field.

Dustin and I walked home alone, leaving the little school that brought up a family behind us for the last time.