Joyride III

They gave us 24 reasons to be optimistic about the future. But it was the past that made us cry.
My wife Kris posted a photo of our 11-year-old son Josh on her Facebook page an hour before his graduation from elementary school. It was his first day of Kindergarten. He has a buzz cut from Sam the barber and he is giving two thumbs ups.
Josh and 23 of his classmates (most of which had been together since that first awkward day of school) stood there on stage. The theme for graduation was about working together and giving back to the world – saving stray dogs, making sure there is clean water in impoverished corners of the world, horseback riding for special needs’ kids, a lot of good causes. For a few moments, they felt so grownup. No dirty shirts. No untied shoelaces. No un-kept hair. They all looked like they were ready to tackle rush hour. But then it happened. In between all the poise and precisely memorized quotes from Nelson Mandela, the trickle began.
The class sang a song about ‘staying little’ and it was one of those rare moments where it seemed to hit the kids and adults with the same poignancy. As we all cried, we were mourning younger versions of our kids. Not because they were cuter then. But because they’re not coming back.
I think the graduates too were awash in memories. But I think they were also crying about the future. Could they remember the combination for their locker when they get to middle school? Would they still sit next to their best friend? Would they still be best friends?
Milestones have a way of taking control of all of our senses. Soon after the song, the graduates solemnly descended off the stage to present their parents with a white rose. There was a sweet sadness lingering as Josh approached us. His expression was conflicted. But he managed to smile. We all seemed to recognize the transition of the moment. These were adult emotions that we were all sharing.
Josh didn’t do the usual begging for some gathering with his friends after the ceremony. He was content to go to lunch with his parents. As one of four kids, a lunch with just him is rare indeed.
We noshed on BBQ (his favorite) in one of those themed restaurants. It was practically empty. The lunch was more introspective than celebratory. Maybe it wasn’t just a chance for us to see him as he is now. Maybe it was a chance for him to see us as we are now, too.
We didn’t do elementary school in review. Instead we talked about his classmates. Who was the most talkative? Who was the funniest? Josh had memorized a passage about teamwork for the ceremony. He recited it in a dignified way on stage. In a way that was careful not to wrestle the spotlight from anyone else.
At lunch, he seemed to be living it. Pretty grown up after all.
Keith Forrest is an assistant professor of communication at Atlantic Cape Community College. His late mother Libby Demp Forrest Moore wrote the Joyride column for this newspaper for 20 years.