I can’t remember the details of the dream, only that I needed to do something.

First day. First day.

I open the can of cinnamon rolls, and it doesn’t just pop. It bursts. Sticky cinnamon crumbs splatter across the front of my white dress.

Still feeling unprepared.

Look at these faces. Another year. Another stairstep photo in the trees.

“It’s your favorite day,” she says. “I literally was about to say that.”

“Whose number is this?”

His energy is just always different when he’s had a good day, and today, even though he had to go to school, he definitely had a good day.

This back-and-forth is too much.

They are coming while I am going.