Mind’s eye

I’ve thought about him all morning, dressed like a Jolly Green Giant, but not jolly nor giant.

Sam is the Frog Prince in a class play this morning.

“I’m so nervous.” He looked grim as we prepared for the day.

“You will do great! You will have so much fun! No reason to worry!” I enthused as I helped him pull his blue coat over his green shirt, specially chosen for it’s amphibian hue. He wore green sweat pants and a green hat as well.

We got in the car and I drove the boys to school. Sam was silent.

I pulled up to the curb and said goodbye. Ryley was in the school before Sam pulled on the latch to get out.

“I am worried about it!” he wailed.

“Do you want me to say a prayer for you?”

“No.”

He got out, struggling with his backpack and his brown grocery bag filled with Frog Prince props, including an elephant. I don’t remember the elephant part of the story. He slammed the door and walked toward the building, head down.

I am nervous for him, not because I don’t think he will be the best Frog Prince ever. If he can pull his nerves together and bind them long enough to get through his lines, he’ll bring down the house (comprised of 18 second-graders). If not?

He’ll have five hard minutes, then the next play will start and he’ll go back to his desk to watch. He might wipe his nose on his sleeve and scratch his neck on the right side, below his ear. He could put his head down on the desk for a minute, rocking his forehead from side to side. A little drool might dribble out, which he’ll wipe with a green cuff. The play will end and he’ll look up and clap, not knowing his forehead is red from the desk. His legs will be crossed under his seat, at his ankles. He didn’t wear his boots, so it will feel comfortable.

Then, lunch. He’ll smile, joining his buddies at the Peanut Free table in the cafeteria. The rest of the day will unfold, too. I can’t picture everything his day will bring.

But I can picture him.