Mother Nature wastes no time changing, her work never seizing. Each morning a freshly painted canvas awaits us when we step outside our door. The flaming reds, glowing yellows, and rusty brown leaves cling to their end of days on trees that overhang our street. Gracefully they fell, swirling in the passing winds and landing before my son. He dragged his feet through the piles that had collected overnight.
A car approached us from behind and instinctively I reached for his hand. As it safely passed, Chunky wriggled out of my grip and carried on with the important task of cleaning the streets with his shoes.
“Momma, are you going to stay with Mrs. Amy and Mrs. Christine and watch us at the fence today?” he asked referring to school drop off.
“Why? Do you want me to?”
“No. You can go home. You can go and work on the magazine stuff and have all of that time!”
“You don’t want me there?”
“It’s ok honey bunny,” he joked, “I’m I big kid and I know what to do if I am not ok.”
“Are you sure that you don’t want me to stay?”
“Will you be mad at me? I still love you to the moon and back!” he praised as he rubbed the side of my arm.
I looked down at him, “Ok big boy. I will leave.”
He adjusted his hat with the flat bill to point it to the right and unzipped his fall jacket. He looked at me predicting my stare of disproval, but I let it slide. “If you get pneumonia, it’s because you’re a stubborn big kid now.” His smile produced the most adorable dimples that are oddly more prominent now than when they were when he was just a plump squishy babe. And like a rabbit set free from a cage, he leapt the rest of the way to school.
Without holding my hand.
Just a few weeks ago, I was putting on his socks and adjusting them so the “bally parts” didn’t poke out on the side and buttoning up his jeans. He makes his own cereal and makes his own chocolate milk with far too much syrup than I’d like. He sounds out words to write them down. Big words like little and fart.
Oh my God, of all the things I’ve been robbed of this year.
My illness makes it seem like the world has been standing still, waiting for me to recover, while this entire time it has actually been slipping through my hands.
He’s been slipping through my hands while my eyes have been wide open but my presence vacant.
My son, blessedly healthy, wastes no time changing. But each episode, he awaits me as I step outside of the depressive fog.
Every day, I think that I’m losing purpose here, then I see him, skipping amongst the flaming reds, glowing yellows, and rusty brown leaves on the street; looking back at me with an outstretched hand as a car approaches.