Mother & Son

I am my Mother’s son. But my Mother has no son. 1+1=1.

I spent time with my Mother on Mothers’ Day. It’s something I have always done, for so many years, so many decades...a lifetime or two (seemingly), that I cannot imagine doing anything else on this day.

She no longer knows me. She looks at me with a weary, wary curiosity. She smiles and nods politely, but is no longer comfortable having this stranger sit so close to her, his hand reaching for hers.

She talks little. And of the little she utters, almost all is unintelligible. A few minutes pass, and she withdraws into herself. She mutters that she must go. She excuses herself. She closes her eyes and moans softly.

I leave. I would have preferred to stay. I wanted to hold her hand just a little bit longer, but my Mother was never one to take kindly to strangers.

Mothers Day, 2006, and I am my Mother’s son.

But my Mother has no son.

* * *

My eyes gravitate to the sons with mothers all around me. I am ever aware of their presence. I indulge in reveries of an amazing mother and her fortunate son. This day becomes a day filled with memories mostly, a day awash with longing and reverence for mothers and their sons.

* * *