Backpacks a-swinging, out the gate, and into the suburban morning. It’s both ordinary and extraordinary. The simplest of connectives, from home to school is approximate to a pair of gentle 8-irons.
By the gate, I watch after them. Alex and Max evaporate around the corner, a sudden jolt to the right.
In my car, I ease around the block to intercept them. Our bond is broken by a tangle of local geography and ribboned tarmac for the one-way street insists I steer away from them, cruelly, past the park, and finally down an untroubled avenue.
It’s ninety seconds of paused terror, it’s ninety seconds of forbidding blackness, but it’s ninety seconds they need.
Of course, their little world grows.
At the intersection by their school, my car crouches and the playground yelps and squeals through the open window like snatches of sudden pop songs.
Alex and Max have escaped my orbit, but I return to them. Like a satellite, my trajectory’s veering back into their warm atmosphere.
And there they are, bouncing along the path, side-by-side, as brothers should, their flapping shorts of uniform-green, quince-peels of hair. The trees fold forward into a guard of honour, and in beaming silence, I smile.
Seeing me is simple permission for them to run to school, like exploding scraps of rainbow, accelerating through the gate, and to their mates.
I yell after them, but my voice is lost behind their giraffe legs and the innocent rush of a new day. “Good job, boys. See you tonight!”
Misty-eyed, I drive off. A bright, early morning, but already it seems late.
Soon, it will be.