Away

Nine years ago, when we first moved to Denver, I had the unfortunate experience of working, briefly, at a child care center and adopting the name Mister Curt. I was only there three or four months, and although I loved my classroom of four-year olds, it was a grueling job and the organization was one of the worst I've ever worked for. It was easy to make the decision to leave, but difficult to leave the children, many of whom I still wonder about. I took many memories away with me, but the thing I remember most was the look in their parents' eyes when they left them with me the very first time. All I could do was reassure them that I'd keep their children safe, make them laugh, impart a bit of wisdom and see to it they left looking forward to returning. And many times, as they walked away, I'd see them peek in the windows one last time trying hard not to press their faces against the glass as they wiped tears from their eyes. Those moments were beautiful and although I said I understood, I don't know that I really did.

Tomorrow is a big day for Duncan and me. Because our apartment is being painted he doesn't get to stay home so I've arranged for my friends Sarah and Andy to take him for the day. It doesn't sound like that big a deal, but, with the exception of Ken and my mother, I've never left Duncan with anyone else. I took him to their home last night so I could get a general sense of how he'd feel being there, to see how he and Kahlua, their dog, would get along and to spend time with their kids, who all loved him on sight, and of course, Duncan loved all the attention. Sarah and Andy were kind to me, but laughed at my nervousness and the impending separation anxiety which will no doubt hit me hard tomorrow morning when I drop him off and drive away, leaving Duncan panting and whining in their window. Sarah reassured me that I can call and check on him throughout the day, but I know it won't be enough. I'll worry for him and worry for them, fretting over whether he's chewing on toys or digging holes or peeing inside (none of which he does). I'll worry that someone has left the gate open and that he's wandering the streets unsure of which direction to go. It's in my nature and there just ain't enough Xanex in the world to make that go away.

I do know that our walk tomorrow will be all the more precious for the time apart, both of us out of our elements. Crazy, I know, but even craziness matters.

Think good thoughts for us. And hope that they keep him safe, make him laugh and leave him with a desire to return.