No more school shoes in September

It was his black school jumper, strewn across the passenger seat, that did it. As soon as I spotted it, the floodgates caved and my face started leaking, a hot tumble of tears splashing all over my lap. The Lad’s final day in school, and I’d been doing so well. 

I held it together for a rousing rendition of Calon Lan at his leavers’ assembly (and usually, if there’s anything guaranteed to set me off in an already emotionally loaded situation, it’s a Welsh hymn delivered with gusto). I was proud of my composure as I watched him head out of the school gates with his mates one last time. I clenched my stomach as all six feet of him disappeared to the pub, his crisp white shirt covered in Sharpie signatures, tie handed in at reception (so landlords couldn’t identify the school responsible for this motley crew should hijinks ensue. A genius flex on the headmaster’s part, I thought.) 

His leaving assembly – possibly the first time he’s set foot in that hall as a sixth former – boasted impressively slick production values, chwarae teg. A virtuoso guitar-and-drums duo performed a Hendrix-style rendition of “Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau”. Another trio delivered goosebumps with their angelic choral harmonies. There was a dash of comedy from their head of year as he recounted anonymous memories submitted by pupils (my lad was roasted for wearing Crocs and no socks on a 10km charity walk, then having the gall to complain about blisters. He’s his mam’s son, alright).

But it was his lovely headmaster’s speech that stole the show. He told the assembled sixth formers that how they perform in their A Levels or what job they land isn’t what counts; how they treat other people and how they show up in the world is what matters most. Just as they’re catapulted into a highly stressful exam season, where it’s easy to believe their value is tied up in their grades, it was a valuable reminder for pupils and parents alike. On the way out, I spotted Mr Owen, my total-mensch-of-a-secondary headmaster, there to mark his granddaughter’s last day of school. I last saw him in 1998 (which feels like only twelve minutes ago), and annoyingly, he’s aged better than I have. I gave him a big cwtch and thanked him, almost thirty years too late. Teaching a bunch of feral Gwent kids in the first Welsh-language comprehensive in the county back in the early 90s must have been quite the ride. Bumping into him cast a wonderful sheen of poetic symmetry over an already big day. 

You see, the lad is an only child, so there’ll be no more school photo days, no more forgotten permission slips, no more regulation black shoes to buy in September. He’s outgrown it all now. I’m not usually sentimental about these occasions, but this one floored me. Something about being a single mam, him being an only child, and this feeling like the first flap of his adult wings before he flies the nest. And wondering about the shape of life on the other side. What will replace the rhythm of him slamming the door at 4 pm every weekday, asking what’s for tea? Because come September, he’ll be gone, along with his guitar and trainer collection, and I can’t even type that without biting my lip. So, all in all, wearing my waterproof mascara felt like a sensible choice. 

Back in the safety of my car, I picked a random Spotify mix to keep me company on the journey home. I was hoping for an upbeat soundtrack, but I’ve been deep in a folk hole since watching the Bob Dylan biopic “A Complete Unknown”. Little surprise, then, that the app gave me “Who Knows Where the Time Goes?” by Fairport Convention. A haunting, wistful meditation on linear time is not what my emotional state needed. But it’s what I got. Kinda cruel, but the algorithm is gonna get you, I guess. And as I leaned to press skip on the stereo, and caught sight of his faded jumper, with its lingering scent of Lynx Africa, I couldn’t hold it in for a second longer. I sobbed all the way home, the emotional hurricane contained in my small glass and steel cage. At least I didn’t do this in front of his friends, I comforted myself. 

How does it happen? One minute you’re panic buying World Book Day costumes, the next you’re waving them onto the secondary school bus for the first time, wondering how that happened. And then, in another nanosecond, you’re confused about where the last seven years went. Did the way Covid warped time into a weird accordion – stretching and contracting by turns – make it worse for this cohort of parents? And why do I feel sad about no more World Book Day costumes, when it used to make me swear into the void every year, without fail? 

It’s been two weeks since his last day in school, and what a difference a fortnight makes. My overwhelming emotions are now mainly over the rising food bill, now that he’s at home all day. It turns out that revision is a seriously calorie-burning beast. And the constant thud-thud-thud of darts (his relaxation activity of choice) in the room next to where I work is starting to wear.  He’s sad to leave, too, though he might not admit it to his mates. He loved school. How lucky is that? Good teachers, close mates, a headmaster with a heart. What a gift.  

I wonder why there’s no word in either English or Welsh for the paradox of wanting something to be over desperately, while simultaneously never wanting it to end. I bet the Germans have a word for it, for the kaleidoscope of nostalgia, loss, and love that floods in when you realise a chapter’s closed, and you’re lucky enough to wish it didn’t have to.