Close your eyes

I know his secrets. I know he was restless again last night. I can see fatigue in his eyes.

“Are you tired?” I ask.

“No,” he says as I watch him yawn.

“Shall I hold you?” I offer.

“Yes,” he says as he lifts his head for me to cradle him.

At nineteen he still looks at me imploringly, willing me to know his needs. With a look that says fix it. Make me feel right. And though he towers over me now, though his childhood years are behind him, I hold him as I always have. Today I know he needs sleep. I know like a young child, he resists leaving conscience thought. He can't find his way to slumber.

“Close your eyes,” I say.

“No close your eyes,” he replies.

“Just close them for a minute,” I suggest. "Just rest your eyes."

He accepts the compromise. Within a minute, his eyelids stop twitching. His body relaxes. I hold him until his breathing grows slow and steady. I carefully move my arm away. Then I inch away. In the soft light of the afternoon sun, I watch him. At peace. Aware I still have the power to make his world feel safe. 

And I wonder about tomorrow.

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Don't give up

Life long pals. On vacation November 2000.

“Don’t worry,” I hear my father say. “He will get there.” He watches Sam, now asleep on his bed and shakes his head in amusement. “He looks comfortable. One thing about Sam, he is always smiling.” My father is Sam’s number one fan.

“Yes he is.” I confirm. “He gets that from you.” My father agrees saying, “When I was in the army I was always in trouble for smiling. They told me, Smiling Jack! Wipe that smile off your face.“ “Yes,” I say.“ And I have heard many other stories when you were in trouble for smiling.” True.” He acknowledges with another of his famous grins.

“How is school?” he asks. “Sam likes math,” I answer, “He likes to read, he likes to draw.” My father responds, “I think he will surprise everyone one of these days.” For a moment or two I feel safe within the cocoon of my father’s optimism.

“Sam is always happy,” my father marvels again. “Yes,” I say. “Well most of the time. He wasn’t too happy at school last week. And they weren’t too happy with Sam.” “Ah,” says my father, “no one ever said life would be easy. Never quit.” “Never quit.” I echo. In my mind I hear my Uncle Anthony tell me, “One thing about your father. He’s no quitter.” We are not quitters. This is our legacy.

My father drifts off for a moment and then returns to me asking, “How tall is Sam now?” “Tall like you. Six foot one.” I answer. My father likes that answer. He likes being responsible for Sam's height. “Sam is a good-looking boy.” He says. “He has a beautiful nose.”  My father also treasures beautiful noses.

He watches Sam thoughtfully. Then he reminds me, “My father used to say to us: Don’t you know, you didn’t come looking for me. I went looking for you.” “Yes, I remember.” I say, acknowledging my responsibility. “I had a wise grandfather.”

Sam is now awake and boisterous once more.  My father marvels one last time, “Look how happy he is. He will get there. Never give up.”

“I won't,” I promise my father for what will be the last time, “I won't.” “Good,” he answers as he smiles once more. 

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What's the plan?

Each morning I wake to the words, “What’s the plan?”

Because Sam lives in the immediate future it is an easy question to answer. Most days it is simply: “First get dressed, then eat breakfast, then go to school, come home and see Mommy. It’s a good plan.”

Sam officially blesses the plan by echoing, “Is a good plan.”  On the rare occasion the plan does not meet his approval he provides an alternate plan: “First get dressed. Put on my Sam’s shoes. Drive the car to the store. Buy some DVDs. Shrek Two, disk 2. Mommy, disk 2. Disk 2, Mommy!” Negotiations are generally simple and straightforward.

My Sam likes a plan. He takes comfort knowing what’s ahead.

I’ve never been a planner. I prefer keeping my options open and focusing only as far ahead as necessary. Where will we go tonight? What’s happening on the weekend? I am more inclined to ask, “Do we really need to make reservations that far in advance?”

Lately though, thoughts of tomorrow are on my mind as I begin to navigate the murky waters of Sam’s future. The first seventeen years have passed with remarkable speed. Our collision course with eighteen demands we look ahead. The tall teen before me is no longer a child.

I wish we could cling to today where Sam is safe and happy and loved. But only by planning for the tomorrows ahead that I can hope to provide him the same security. But what does the future look like? How will I know what I've crafted is right? As I ask these questions, I understand the comfort Sam finds in knowing “the plan" is complete. Like Sam I find myself asking again and again, "What's the plan?"

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Forever and ever

“Mommy stay,“ Sam requests.

“How long?” I ask.

“Forever and ever,” to clarify, Sam adds, “is a lotta time.”

Wrapping my arms around him securely, I vow, “I will try.”

And there it is – an image of my mother and my childhood self. I can hear her voice.

“The fall passed so quickly this year,” she remarks to my aunt. Is she crazy? Doesn’t she know it takes an eternity for Christmas to arrive each year? And you can travel back and forth to the moon three times before my birthday arrives in late August? Time moves slower than a snail and it is endless.

At college graduation, it occurs to me my school years passed faster than I thought. But I am busy with my friends finding my way, each of us looking for separate answers in an oddly unified way. Only through the passage of time can we find our place. I am in a bit of a hurry to get to wherever it is.

Yes! A real first real job, soon followed by a second. Nights out with friends grow less frequent as one by one we settle down. Marriages and houses and jobs are the topic now. Who cares if spring comes a little more quickly? Everyone looks forward to spring.

Next come children. “Will I ever sleep again?” I ask. “Oh yes!” my mother assures me. I beg time to pass so I can get some sleep. And then, in a blink the year has passed and we are all sleeping. There’s crawling, then walking and we’ve looped around to Christmas again. How did that happen? No matter. Christmas is a wonderful time of year.

“Let me show you how to make the calamari, so you will know when I am not here,”  my mother offers one Christmas Eve. “Where are you going? You will always be here, won’t you?” I say half in jest. I can’t imagine life without my mother. She just smiles and chides me to pay attention. But that day comes long before expected, long before I am ready. Stop. Stop. Time, please stop. There is so much I don’t know.  

Sam is 17 now; almost an adult by law. As I look into Sam’s eyes, I’ve come full circle. “Sammy, listen.” I say, “Focus. You need to try. You need to learn this.” Like the younger me, he only concerns himself with today. He laughs, purposefully ignoring me. I continue to try, echoing words from my mother, aware I am only his guide though this part of life. And tomorrow will be here long before either of us wants it to be.

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