I’ve just been to my last ever parent-teacher progress meeting.
LittleDavyTwo is in Form 7 (which, I understand, is Year 7 in the new educational lingo). She’s doing well, thanks for asking, as far as I can tell. The conversation morphed into something about conical equations, so how would I really know?
While she and the teacher traded x’s and y’s I soaked up the atmosphere of the classroom for the last time. Not so different from our first visits with LittleDavyOne a million years ago, maybe. All the pictures on the wall, the blackboard, the dinky desks and chairs that I can’t fit into. The smell isn’t chalk anymore, but there’s still the whiff of institutional cleaning, and sweaty feet.
I hold closely the memories of the LittleDavys on their first days, in too big uniforms, so scary excited to be so grown up. Not wanting to let go our hands, not wanting not to. My heart broke for them then, and it hasn’t stopped. There is no end in sight to worrying for them.