My friend Brent

Excuse the interruption. I haven't told all the CPConnect story, but sometimes life take an unexpected turn.

There have been many things I have wanted to do, in my life. Besides being a mother, a writer, and an artist, I wanted to be a teacher. Although I never had my own classroom at nearby Franklin Elementary, where I could have walked to school on pleasant days if I chose, I was still a teacher. I did substitute teaching for many grade levels in several school systems. I taught art, English, math, chemistry, health, guidance, physical education, and computer science.

My favorite teaching experience was from 1988 to 1994, when I taught Head Start, pre-school, school-age, and infants/toddlers at my college alma mater's daycare center. I conducted circle time, read Dr. Seuss and Richard Scarry, sang "Willoughby Wallaby" on field trips, drove a university van full of kids to Berheim Forrest and Mammoth Cave Park, and met many remarkable people under 48" high.

There were many children I will think of with fondness the rest of my life. One of them was Brent. When I first met him, Brent was two years old, and in another teacher's group. I had a two-year-old in my own group named Jeremy, a fiesty, out-going little squirt who easily won people's hearts. By comparison, Brent moved more awkwardly and responded more slowly to things, rarely speaking more than a word at a time. Brent surprised me one day during nap time when he pointed to a drawing another child had done of a large bird. He pronounced a single word -- "Eagle." Not just a bird, but a bird of prey. Not just a species, but a subspecies.

As time passed, I learned he had developmental delay. He was not like other children in some respects, though very like them in others. He learned the names of other children in the center, but he was more interested in social contact with their parents or grandparents. He would buttonhole unsuspecting guardians coming to pick up children. Although he was large, somewhat unwieldy, and impulsive, he was sweet and loving. I was often amused by the way he would single-mindedly concentrate on things he was interested in, not to be distracted by trifling obstacles. He had a great sense of humor and would laugh until he cried at things he found absurd.

As time passed, Brent acquired a baby sister. Then he started regular school, although he came to school-age daycare in the summer and afternoons. One year, between our sessions, while his mother was working, I babysat Brent and his sister. While his sister was at kindergarten for the afternoon, I took Brent to the Sidewalk Chalking Drawing event in Franklin. He was very pleased to see my house and meet my mom ("Gran").

Years passed. I saw his mom and sister in Bowling Green when Eve and I went to a movie. I wouldn't have recognized his sister, who had just started high school. We discussed Brent. His mother said he hadn't come along that time, and he'd be disappointed to have missed me.

I saw her in Wal-Mart this afternoon. I couldn't think of her name at first, though I knew she was Brent's mom. I said hello, smiled, and went on my way to pick up things for supper. When I was checking out, I saw her again.

"I didn't know it was you at first," she said.

"How are the kids doing? Though they aren't kids anymore," I commented, realizing Brent had turned 20 this fall. A look passed over her face like a shadow, and I saw the sparkle in her eyes that foretold unshed tears. We walked away from the check-out line.

"Brent's -- gone home," she said, and the tears spilled from her eyes. "It happened last year."

I realized, with some shock, what she meant, and I gave her a hug.

"I had no idea. What happened?" I asked.

There had been a car accident. There was a missing stop sign someone had knocked down where his sister was driving, and an oncoming car struck the door where Brent was sitting. His little sister was having trouble dealing with her grief. I told their mother I'd lost my dad and my sister in a similar way. It can be hard to forgive yourself for surviving something like that, when someone you love has died.

We spoke for a few more minutes, both of us crying. His sister had graduated high school, but she was taking some time before starting college. I told her mother to give her my love.

"I'm thankful I know where he is, and he's safe and happy," his mother said. "Someday, when we're on the other side, this will all seem unimportant. -- I'm usually all right, except when I meet someone else I knew loved him."

Sometimes I wonder about Jordan and Chrissy and Brandon, and other children who were Rocking Horses, Androids, or other fanciful group members nearly 20 years ago. Today, I thought maybe it was better I don't try to track them. I could keep them in my heart forever as the children they were.
Maybe that isn't right. My own kids are adults now, and I love the adult-to-adult relationships I share with them just as much as I loved their growing-up years.

Then I thought of a comment I had made at the CafePress board earlier today, concerning the conference.
"I've decided that when you leave your heart in SF, you're really just taking SF along with you to keep in your heart."

That's the way it is with people you love, whether they're alive or "gone home." You leave your heart behind with them, and yet you take them with you forever. The rest of my life, I'll remember the summer afternoon when I drew Brent's picture while he colored on paper at the table. And I'll remember how he laughed when we played "abierto - cerrado!" I'll remember how he surprised adults by looking at their keys and telling them what kind of car they drove. He's in a better place, along with my little sister and other people I have loved, but he'll always be here in my heart.