Small Creatures

They carry backpacks almost as large as they are. The look is deceiving, as the bags themselves are nearly empty. A matching lunchbox, and then a warming expanse of unfilled space beneath fabric that in the months to come will swell to bursting like a balloon — with artwork and library books, forms and files. The tender detritus of these first gentle days in the current.

One is purple. An elegant flamingo stitched along its flank. The other is an electric green, replete with a rainbowed gecko straddling its back. Small creatures, vivid with energy and detail, not yet worn or diminished by the passage of time and seasons.

All things fade, in time. But today, this morning, they are clean and crisp and perfect: a source of pride and worthy of admiration as they are paraded up the path, through the woods and beyond to the new world. Each step a bounce; a bound, really, as their eagerness and excitement is sped by the tightly-knotted, immaculate new shoes they had chosen themselves the previous weekend. "These are fast sneakers," they claimed. They were right.

Ahead, their older brother is moving with confidence. These are familiar waters, whose plateaus and grottos, riots of bold color and hidden, haunted depths he has learned to navigate with some comfort over the previous two years. He carries with him a new backpack of his own - pylon orange, we'd joked; "we'll never lose him in a crowd" - and something new: the bravado of young boys. He has grown tall and tan and lean over the summer, his voice dropping, and somehow in the slow, humid passage of days has transformed from a little kid into a boy. A real boy.

But for them, this is a day of firsts. A moment we've prepared for since July melted into August and their final days in the only school they'd ever known began to fall away, one by one by one. "It will be new for you, but it will be new for everyone else in your class, too. Everyone will be starting off the same. A little scared. A little excited. New." Days before, they had come here for a brief orientation — meeting their teacher. Seeing the room. Casting eyes on the new sets of eyes that would share the year to come. We'd watched them vacillate between fearlessness and anxiety. Watched their relief, visible, when it was over and it was time to go home.

Now, as we reach the top of our climb and enter the school grounds, they become fearless once again. "I know where to go, Mommy!" one cries. "Me, too!" echoes her twin.

There is such pride in these first steps. I do not look, but I know my wife is smiling.

The sea of humanity is vast. Hundreds of children, coupled and uncoupled with parents. Some instantly, instinctively pooling together - finding safety and comfort in numbers and familiar faces - while others prowl the edges. Seeking a place to call their own. I split off with my son, and find our way to where his class is meeting. Introduce myself to his teacher, catch up with his aide and other support staff. After a few minutes, it occurs to me that I've lost track of him, and instinctively my eyes rise to try to find him on the periphery... only to discover: his orange backpack twelve feet in front of me. Still astride his back, as he and a handful of other boys look over the class list. Seeing who is there, and who is not. He is standing slightly to the outside, looking in - I laugh as I write this, because for once I mean it literally - but this is an attempt to engage. To be a part of the crowd. These things do not come easily, and it is only a moment, but I see it and... well: I see it.

His aide follows my eyes, and says, "He seems to be settling in okay. I think he'll be fine here." And then she sends me back to the girls.

I arrive just as the bell rings, in time to sync with my wife and urge the girls toward the door. "Line up!" we say, our voices bright with what we hope is infectious excitement. It is a new line, and it is composed of new faces, but the act of lining up itself is familiar — and even as their small faces begin to crack at the edges as they realize that this, finally, is the moment of departure, the years of rote preschool routine kick in and they merge into line among their new peers.

Their new teacher - our son's teacher, when he had been in Kindergarten - sees us, then follows our eyes down to our daughters. They are holding hands with each other, and trying to be brave, but their resolve is crumbling rapidly.  She says their names - strong, clear, confident - and as they look up she takes their hands and leads them gently forward. "Let's go and get started!" she says. They nod: okay, and blink away the tears.

I watch the gecko and the flamingo as they bounce gently off their backs, in time and in rhythm. Up and down. Up and down.

And then they are gone.