Had things been normal, The Boy’s school year would have ended with field day. Each year, a new t-shirt is designed, and the school meets at Lincoln Park for a day of events that the parents and teachers plan, coordinate, and execute with varying degrees of aptitude. Living so close to the park, we have hosted, for the last few years, most of the students in one or both of our kids’ classes for pre-field day shenanigans and donuts. When the time comes we walk them down to the park
There was no field day this year, and I miss filling the street in front of the house with a dozen screaming grade schoolers at 7:30 in the morning. But at least the commemorative shirts were still made. They were handed out with a few other items at the final drive-thru this morning. When The Boy brought it in and showed me, I couldn’t believe what I saw. I have no idea if a parent drew this up, or if it’s some stock design, but it’s the perfect accompaniment to a poem I wrote years ago as The Boy, then just a baby, was falling asleep on my chest:
The Dreamstronaut The boy adrift in outer space alone, His hairless pate in a glassy dome. The awe, the joy, the dreaming soul. A six-tooth smile in a barrel roll. While his hands still search and his toes still curl, Half in, half out of his old man's world. The half that's in heaves a sigh at me, The half that's gone starts its reverie. With that I guess he's in the stars, Using them like monkey bars, To swing amidst the giant rows While the library of his dreaming grows. And once it's up he'll float about In no great hurry to be picking out His stories or his nursery rhymes; He knows his dreams aren't bound by time. He bobs on past hoar-frosted shelves, And a section with a copse of elves. With a languid pull he moves along, To the fantasy he'll settle on. I've always imagined him like this, Giggling through the stacks in bliss. The length and breadth of an innocent's whim, His snickers and kicks propelling him. Now in my arms he's settled more, But he shifts a bit one time before His searching hand tugs on my nose - He's grabbed a dream, and off he goes.