There's times when I look over at my husband's chair and miss him. He is puttering somewhere in the house, and I can hear rooting sounds of opening and closing drawers and his footsteps in the hall. The chair is a beautiful leather recliner with nail head trim that he uses every day. No one would guess it is part of the spoils of a war from a long and fierce battle to find each other.
I'm feeling an incredible sense of dis-ease as my son travels through Mexico on vacation. He posted a photo with AJ in Simi Valley on Saturday; we've spied on his account, which is linked since the college days, and there are gas fill ups to the border on Monday; and yesterday there was a VM from BofA thanking him for notifying them he would be out of the country for the next two weeks. We are awaiting word of his safe arrival in Cabo.
All the boys are half daredevil, admittedly by exposure to scuba gear and spelunking suits and snorkels when they were growing up. They rode scooters and played street hockey, baseball, soccer, football, and handball. They camped and swam and biked their way along and now that they are of age, they do all the things I never approved of: they own guns, dabble in racing 'lemon' cars and ride motorcycles.
I sometimes wonder what life would be like without them. They are such precious gifts. And so this weekend for Mother's Day is the perfect time to celebrate each of them. Two of my sons will be with us at the races on Saturday; and when the eldest returns, I promise to take time to memorize and appreciate his wonderful hug.
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