We can each find our own version of “complete” this school year.

The close of school couldn’t be the same this year.

We did what we could to mark the milestone, but this June brought a sense of “incomplete,” and a sadness that I couldn’t seem to shake.

Because our school building closed abruptly on March 13, our students needed to return before school ended to pick up their belongings. We prepared a plan that would allow the kids to safely walk through the building, gather their things, and say goodbye to teachers for the summer.

As each masked student came in, I felt my body exhale a little bit of breath that I wasn’t aware I’d been holding onto. While I’ve been with them every day on my computer screen for the past 13 weeks, I had missed the way they each stride down the hallway at school.

Because things aren’t the same, I was sharply conscious of which kids were in the building, where they were, and paid close attention as they exited through the back door.

I suddenly realized that I didn’t know where Oliver was.

He had definitely come in- I had noticed his new haircut, smiling eyes, and the couple of inches he had grown this spring.

I shouted out to the art teacher, “Lisa, do you have Oliver with you?”

”No, he came through already,” she shouted back.

A momentary panic flooded me- that feeling all teachers get when they miscount heads before the field trip bus returns to school.

“Think, Katy,” I said to myself out loud. It suddenly became very obvious to me where Oliver was.

I walked down the hallway to the social group room, where I heard the familiar sound of rustling LEGOs. “Hey Oliver,” I said, feeling a smile creep across my face.

“Hi,” he said matter of factly, “I just need to finish this.” He held up a small LEGO vehicle that I recognized instantly.

“Oh! Your ambulance! You had been working on that in March!”

”Yes,” he said, busily building. “I just need to add the tail lights… and… it’s finished.” Oliver carefully put his creation on the shelf, looked at it with pride, and declared, “Now summer can begin.”

He picked up his muck boots and paper bag filled with art class drawings and walked toward the back door.

Without turning around, he shouted joyfully, “See you online, Katy!”

I watched as Oliver headed toward the sunshine outside of the back door. “See you online, O.”

This school year was different in more ways than it was the same, and when we give into uncertainty, the anxiety around what school will look like in the fall feels huge.

But if we catch our breath for just a moment- there are tiny opportunities to feel the “completeness” that usually accompanies June’s familiar warmth. For Oliver, it was finishing his LEGO ambulance, and for me, it was getting to be in the room to watch him do it.