Your relationship with my son has been reliable, stable.
Always there, in that reusable Tupperware container in the bottom of the backpack.
Day after day, Monday through Friday.
Never on a weekend. Weekends are made for hot dogs or soup; for grilled cheese or leftover pizza.
Oh, there have been others before you.
I recall a particularly expensive phase of roast beef in fourth grade.
Several dalliances with a school lunch purchase; maybe a tempting order of Beef Nachos or Mini Cheeseburgers. Relationships that soured almost the moment the food crossed his lips.
And then you came along, simple and easy. Two ingredients, that’s all.
Whole wheat bread. Smooth peanut butter.
And suddenly, there was no other.
Somewhere early on in middle school, the relationship became exclusive. I was a willing enabler after a while, admittedly because you were easy.
I’m not ashamed to admit that, really.
So for the past seven years we’ve met each morning at the kitchen counter; danced our dance with a knife and a few crumbs.
Over 1,200 times, at last count.
But it’s over now; it’s time for me to let you go.
This morning was our last rendezvous by the pantry, the last time we’ll create crumbs together in an attempt to provide brain food to a busy high school kid.
I wish you well.
And while you and I won’t be together anymore, there’s still hope for you.
You might find yourself in a dorm room come September.