It was the last day of the longest school year in front of a camera, in a room, in a house. 

Max left us and ran out to the school playground. He disappeared into his group of classmates as they felt their way around this new⏤yet familiar⏤experience. 

A wrinkled paper white board hung on a metal stand near the school building. It announced “Ms. Bond’s Class!” with all the names of her students written in bright colored, whimsical lettering. As a photo backdrop, it gave the teacher and her class a way to commemorate a milestone of momentary, real-life togetherness, imbued with obligatory optimism and forced cheeriness. She felt something quietly: this moment was never meant to last, but will be repeated for many school years to come.

Peter and I stood there talking, just the two of us, watching Max as the separation unfolded…a slow parting as the parents recede in the rear view mirror. Onto the next.

Just me and Peter there, alone.

No other parents to talk to. 

Just the two of us.

Then one day it will be one of us.

Then none of us.