Some Days Hit Harder Than Others

Today was kindergarten registration day—usually one of my favorite days of the year as a PTA board member. I love being there, helping set up, welcoming new families, and seeing the excitement on the faces of the students as they begin their school journey. But this year felt different in a way I wasn’t prepared for. This year, Erin should have been right there with me, getting ready to start her own journey. Instead, I couldn’t bring myself to help set up or even walk through the doors. It was simply too hard. That feeling—the weight of what should have been—is what inspired me to write this poem.

Kindergarten Registration Day

Last names A through F,

9 to 11—

the halls filled just like they always do.

Bright balloon pillars standing tall,

paper letters spelling

“Welcome, Class of 2039”

carefully placed with hopeful hands.

I’ve done this every year—

tap, tape, tie, and smile—

helping build the first memory

of a brand-new beginning.

And they came—

little hands in bigger ones,

parents clutching folders

of birth certificates,

immunization records,

proof of a life just beginning.

The line stretched long,

buzzing with questions—

“What teacher will they get?”

“Will they make new friends?”

Hope lived in every step forward.

But this year,

there was a space in that line—

quiet, unseen by most,

but deafening to me.

This was her year.

Erin’s year.

While they held proof of life,

we sit at home

holding proof of loss—

a death certificate

where her kindergarten papers

should have been.

While they wonder

which classroom door will be their childs,

we are left wondering

which one it would have been Erins.

Which teacher

would have learned her laugh,

her questions,

her bright little way of seeing the world?

The balloons still stood tall.

The sign still welcomed.

The doors still opened

to every child but one.

And somewhere between

the celebration and the silence,

I held both—

the joy for them,

and the ache for her.

Because today

should have been

the start of her story too.

And over by the blocks—

where families stop,

smile,

and capture the beginning—

I can almost see her standing there.

Small, proud,

ready for her picture,

ready for her first day.

She may not be in the frame,

but she is in this place—

in every welcome we create,

in every child who feels seen.

Erin will always be here,

right where beginnings are made.