Graduation Parade

They line up in caps and gowns,

a soft parade down familiar halls,

each step returning them

to a classroom that never left them.

Teachers wait with knowing smiles,

walls still painted the same colors,

floors remembering

exactly where they grew up.

I stand at the edge of the line,

tassel brushing my cheek,

searching for a doorway

that could claim me.

But my childhood is scattered

four playgrounds,

two countries,

pledge of allegiance in different languages.

I learned two alphabets

in different languages,

learned to say goodbye

before I learned long division.

Which school would I return to?

The one with gravel instead of grass?

The one where I first learned

how to be new?

There is no single hallway

that holds my name.

No teacher who could point and say,

she started here.

So when the parade begins,

I watch from the side

clapping for a childhood

that stayed in one place.

And I realize

some traditions are built

for roots, not wings.

Still, I carry every classroom with me,

every desk, every bell,

and though I cannot walk the route,

I am not missing where I came from.

I just came from everywhere.