At noon the playground began to clear. Indoors, parents were clustered around the bulletin board looking at the photos of the school’s teachers, conjuring up the face of next year.

Report cards, test scores, Parents clutched in their hands the familiar manila folder, the shopping bags of school work, art work, clay sculptures.

Some fifth graders cried. So were very “whatever” blase. One moms eye make-up was blurry and black from the sadness and the humid heat: giving her raccoon eyes and a genuinely mournful glaze.

Another friend said, “You know, we’re moving…”

OSFO’s second grade teacher looked on in disbelief that this class was moving on to the next big thing. It was her first year of teaching when she had OSFO and her friends. She was so new at it all; her first.

Smartmom ran into OSFO’s third grade teachers, a spirited woman with a large, warm face. “So this is it,” she said to Smartmom and gave her a hug. Smartmom has nothing but good memories for the way this teacher understood OSFO’s learning style; how she guided with a gentle hand and helped OSFO achieve good things. Tears were just under the surface for that encounter.

A hug and they moved on.

Smartmom held her shopping bag filled with single flowers wrapped in purple tissue paper. There was one for the crossing guard, one for the parent coordinator, who’s been at the school as long as Smartmom has.

One for Teen Spirit’s first grade teacher. “It all goes back to you in the lovely floral dress you wore on Teen Spirit’s first day of kindergarten. Thanks for everything,” Smartmom wrote in a note. She is now assistant principal.

One for OSFO’s teachers this year; one for the guidance counselor who is retiring and was so helpful getting the middle school muddle unmuddied.

But then the parents moved away, the backyard emptied in the light rain. Smartmom didn’t know what to do with herself. As she has done all year, OSFO was already on her way to a friend’s house.

Smartmom stood alone, looking for someone to talk to, someone to share news of next year’s teacher, next year’s path.

And then it dawned on her…

She has no business at this elementary school anymore. Sure, she could hang around at drop off, pick up, watch the parents of younger children as they move through the steps of elementary school. She could even pretend that she has a child going there.

But what would be the point?

Smartmom is no longer part of this place that engaged in her so many ways for 11 years. Without a child there, it is time to move on. Time to catch the bus, as it were, the B67. Hop on the bus, Smartmom.

Next stop: New Voices.