As I told you in my last post, I forget things. But this particular thing is different. It's bigger than a tradition, more ritual than routine. On every school day since Dillon was in kindergarten, we've put a note in his lunch box. Either I write it, or my husband writes it, depending on who's packing the lunch. (Except that one time I forgot. I was in the school parking lot with no paper and nothing to write with, and a very kind parent handed me an old receipt and a pen. I scribbled the note on the back of the receipt and stuffed it in the lunch box. True story.)
"iHad a great summer" -- get it? See how the words are in the center of an iPad? Dillon didn't get it. Perhaps I should have capitalized the "H", but he says it wouldn't have helped. I asked if the notes embarrass him now that he's halfway to 15. He thought for a moment and smiled. "Keep doing it," he said. I understand he dictates the terms of this one, and that's okay, because I've saved every single note. They're all mixed up, some stained with peanut butter grease. My own box of treasure, a capsule in time.
This is the latest post in the August series, Awakening.