The Brave Wave

Every morning, Ari and Mama walked to the playroom — the one with the red door.

And every morning, at the red door, Ari’s hand held on to Mama’s hand very, very tight.

Inside were blocks. Inside was the little slide. Inside were the other children and the fish tank and Miss Joy, who always crouched down and said, “Good morning, Ari!”

But between Ari and all of it was the hard part.

The bye-bye part.

“Shall I tell you a secret?” said Mama, crouching down too. “Bye-bye is not gone. Bye-bye means: see you soon, and I will think of you the whole time. That’s why we made the brave wave. Remember how it goes?”

Ari remembered.

The brave wave goes like this: arm up HIGH. Hand open WIDE. And then — open-shut, open-shut, open-shut — the biggest, most flappy wave in the world, the kind you can see from far away, the kind that means I am a little wobbly AND I am okay.

Both at once. That’s what makes it the brave one.

Ari looked at the blocks. Ari looked at Mama. Ari’s tummy had butterflies in it, whole flappy butterflies.

Then Ari let go of Mama’s hand — all by himself, one finger at a time — and lifted his arm up HIGH, and opened his hand WIDE:

Open-shut. Open-shut. Open-shut.

“There it is!” said Mama, and she gave the brave wave right back, big and flappy from the red door. “See you soon, my brave one! I’ll think of you the WHOLE time!”

And in went Ari — wobbly and okay, both at once — to the blocks and the little slide and Miss Joy and the fish.

The morning went fast, the way mornings do when you’re busy being okay.

And at pick-up time, when the red door opened and Mama’s face was in it, Ari came running with arms up HIGH —

— because the brave wave has a secret ending, and the secret ending is this:

Every bye-bye wave is just a hello wave, waiting to come back.

Open-shut. Open-shut. Hello, hello, hello.