As we pull our car into the parking lot at Jericho Elementary School, we are greeted by the sight of teachers waving and cheering. The sun is shining brightly, and Bob Marley is playing on our car stereo.
We roll down our windows and Nurse Lindsay asks us all some health screening questions, and then she takes Jackson’s temperature. “Okay, Jackson! All set!”
Jackson, six years old, is dressed in his favorite shirt (a button-down short sleeve shirt, bright red, with bright yellow bananas all over it). He’s got a tie-dye face-mask on, with sunglasses. He hops out of the car, and waves to us. His hair, grown curly and sun-bleached during covid, blows around in the breeze. “So long, amigos!” he calls, and walks confidently toward the school entrance.
Brinton, Lily, and I giggle. Jackson marches off, with his giant-sized backpack swaying back and forth. He’s guided by teachers who are cheering and waving him into the building.
Our little guy is going to be okay.