Still Swirled

Still circling my subject matter--the end of Lily's preschool years--although I know I am going to hone in eventually. The Watermelon Party was today--this is her preschool's end-of-year celebration. I was reminded, as we sat waiting for the children to come down the stairs and sing for us, that just a few weeks ago in our ongoing series of "Tell Me a Story from When You Were a Little Girl, Mama," I had told Lily, almost offhandedly, about something I hadn't thought about in decades: my own preschool's end-of-the-year celebration.

It's funny that Lily's school celebration is both named after and focused on the consumption of a particular food. Because the only thing I remember about my last day of preschool is the little sundae cups. Do you remember these? I think they're still around, but I haven't seen one since I was five. They come 10 or 12 to a package, I think, in little plastic containers with paper lids. The containers are plastic, I am assuming, because you can see that way whether you are getting the chocolate swirl or the strawberry swirl; I always wanted the strawberry. (My love for chocolate has always been narrow and specific as opposed to all-encompassing.) The cups were eaten with those little flat wooden "spoons." 

My preschool, in the suburb in which I grew up, had a big outdoor space surrounded by a fence, and it was in this yard that we ate the sundae cups. When I had finished describing the cups to Lily, I stopped and looked at her intently, waiting for her to say, "And then?" or maybe, "So?" But she did not. "I can imagine you eating one of those," she said instead. "I would like to try one." And it became clear to me, for the hundredth time, that these stories for her are not about plot or character development or larger meaning but instead about feeling connected to me, to the child I was, like she is now, and about knowing where--in even the most minute and seemingly inconsequential ways--she comes from. 

So even if all Lily remembers is the watermelon, I, now, will remember so much more: the smile she exchanged with the classmate standing next to her on the steps, the way she threw herself into her teacher's arms, the book she pulled out of the red canvas bag, the swirling chaos of the parents in the classroom, the overwhelmed little boy retreating to his cubby, the laughter, the sound of the singing, the moment when, walking down the stairs, she spotted me in my folding chair and very lightly touched her finger to her nose, the symbol we had agreed upon so she could know I was watching. I wonder if my parents remember the sundae cups.