Lay Me Down
Last Friday evening, I went to a potluck dinner at Asher's new school, bearing foil tins of bean burritos and brownies, cupcakes with thick white frosting and golden sprinkles. The school sits in an office park in Winchester and the playground is a makeshift, gorgeous set of structures and wild tire swings and rocky hiding places built in the trees at the edge of the parking lot. There were clotheslines and miniature laundry clips you could hang homemade art from--with the markers on the wooden table, I drew a photo of a sparkling eye. To be loved is to be seen, I wrote, because I was watching Asher run happily through the trees, now at the basketball court, greeting the school director with what looked like real pleasure, the night darkening as musicians played saxophone and the most diverse and cerebral group of people circulated with plates of pizza and Korean barbecue. Even after just a month or so, Asher is himself at school, and he is at home at school. The relief washed