School Gates: Where Our Stories Often Begin

Our stories often begin at school gates. For some, these gates swing open easily. For others - like myself on that verandah 56 years ago - they represent a threshold we're reluctant to cross. Walking back from an early morning swim in Kiama beach, I got caught up in back-to-school crowds and so I sat and took a moment, watching families navigate their first-day rituals under the ancient Norfolk pines.

Some of our earliest life chapters are written in these long ago half-remembered moments, much like watercolors left in the rain. I can still feel my hand gripping my mother's, that moment suspended in time until my name was called. Strange how these early chapters write themselves into our future pages, sometimes requiring years of therapy to fully understand.

This morning, I watched a little boy in oversized glasses shoulder a backpack almost his size. His mother stood ready with her camera, preserving this moment against the backdrop of these towering pines that have witnessed countless such beginnings. Nearby, a young couple cradled their newborn, already drafting the opening lines of their child's school story, five years yet unwritten.

We carry these school-gate stories forward. When my daughter Rachael started, I filled her backpack with Band-Aids and tissues - tangible expressions of a parent's need to protect even when letting go. Now, watching my grandson crawl toward his first birthday, I hear his parents contemplating different storylines altogether - perhaps homeschooling, a chapter unimaginable in my own childhood narrative.

Each school gate moment holds both beginnings and endings in perfect tension. While cameras capture smiling faces and new adventures, parents silently grieve the end of those precious early years spent wholly together. Joy mingles with loss - grandparents beam with pride while missing their own children's small days. The whole family gathers to celebrate, each carrying their own school gate stories to this moment.

Our life stories layer upon each other like sediment. This morning's seaside chat with my grandson's father about artificial intelligence mingles with memories of watching my older siblings disappear through those gates, leaving me to find my place with my younger sisters. Each memory builds on the last, weaving together past and present and creating patterns for life.

The uniforms are still too big, the hats still cover small faces, and parents still carry backpacks their children will grow into. Somewhere, a child's tears echo across the years, harmonising with the waves. These chapters we write at the school gate - they're not just about education. They're about separation, independence, fear, and growth. The same themes repeat across generations, yet each story remains uniquely our own.

Under these wise old pines, new chapters begin daily. As I gather my things to leave, a small hand waves from a classroom window. In that simple gesture, I see all the waves that have come before - my own tentative goodbye to my mother, my daughter's brave flutter of fingers, and now my grandson's future farewells yet to come. Each wave marks both an ending and a beginning, a step away from the school gate into the next chapter of our ever-unfolding story.

Where do your school gate memories take you?