Commencement

I was making long strides up the side of the hill next to Muir Beach, and looking back every few steps to see if the four students who had chosen to come along with me on this last minute hike. Two of the girls know already that they won't be back at our school for fifth grade. They're moving out of state. The other girl and the lone boy who came chugging up the hill with us will most likely return to finish their elementary careers before heading on to middle school. On Monday, they will have eight more days of school together.
On Monday, I will have eight more days as their teacher. It was bound to happen. I was all but a sure thing that I would get a little verklempt at this point. Somewhere in the middle of the country, my niece was being handed her high school diploma, and another group of fourth graders were getting ready to wave goodbye to Mister Caven. One of the girls had her father's camera phone, so I insisted that she take a picture of all of us on the top of that hill. These kids should remember each other the same way I remember Ron Fox, Warren Pearson, and Kent Sickels. Back in fourth grade we were the four Musketeers. We sat at the same table group the whole year, and we were the golden boys. By fifth grade, we had all begun to move into our preadolescent grooves, but for that one year, we were inseparable and unstoppable.
Those kids on the hill reminded me of a past where anything was possible, and fun still came in bunches. I will miss them next year. I hope they come back and visit. I want to see how they turn out.