Mornings Like This

It's Friday morning again, a misty-drizzly day with no blue sky to be seen. The sidewalk and streets are wet. The ground underfoot is soft. And that boy is walking to school again, as he does every day, walking down the street with his trombone in his right hand, his duct tape repaired backpack on his shoulders, his lunch box swinging from its attach-point on the left side of the pack.

There he goes again. And here I stand, coffee cup in hand, watching him go.

Is it silly to feel this way about this? Does he wonder, on those days when he does look back and sees me still standing here? Does he wonder what on earth I am doing?

He might, but it is not, because as I stand here watching him walk into the mist down the street around the corner, I know that he is walking into his own life, and I won't have many more mornings like this.

So I'll just stand here, thank you very much.

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