There are questions you want to ask but you don’t and instead, you nod and gaze as he speaks, hungry for the tales he’s now willing to share, and curious to see the images on his digital camera – at last.
Now you may see how he spent all those weeks overseas, those weeks when he was out of touch, those weeks you didn’t worry because you knew he was safe in a culture you loved and you miss, in the bosom of a family that remains his, though they are no longer your own.
And you hold back tears.
You’ve become expert at holding back tears.
You ask how his grandfather is doing and the answer is brief. You ask how his grandmother is doing and the response concerns her cooking. You ask about three aunts, four cousins, and each time the reply is insufficient but you do not probe. He willingly elaborates on changes in local zoning laws, terraced facades in architectural models, the consistency of foam versus foam core with its papery surface.
And you savor each bit of information.
As for the details of the job, the adventures on the river, the muddy music festival with his brother – the irony isn’t lost on you that it’s only as you accompany him to the airport to leave that you are privy to his stories.
A year ago this was a journey made together, but now there is no need.
He is chatty and animated and incredibly sweet; he is always tender with you before he departs, knowing that you are left to a hollow in the aftermath and then, of course, you adjust.
This is the natural progression into young adulthood and you hold your questions not so much because you choose ignorance, but you recognize this as appropriate space, respecting his privacy and knowing that you can no longer push.
You walk to the Security line and hug him, and you do not linger. You return to the train platform in silence and still, hold back the tears. You board the car, you fiddle with your cell, and you whisper what you have for years and always will – that he arrive at his destination, safely.
You whisper what you have for years and always will – that he arrive at his destination, safely.
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Oh gosh. I feel that so often.
My mum used to wait up for all her kids and worry constantly until we were safely home – even as adults, even now … she worries.
The first time my boy went away he didn’t call me as often as he promised and I always had to wait longer than he said to hear from him. It was so painful, to go from being the person who knows everything they eat in a day, what book they are reading, how many hours they are sleeping – to nothing. Guess we were being slowly detached … then last year he went away – paid for the trip himself and flew to the other side of the country with a group of friends for ten days … their first trip away as adults, in total charge of their lives. I had to let him go – but only if I could do so and not worry. I didn’t even ask him to call or text because if he didn’t – I would worry. He did call though … and it was a genuine surprise and joy when he thought of us.
I don’t want to be ‘worried sick’ … and now my boy turns 20 on Sunday. He is still here with me and that’s all that matters. Every time he goes out that door “…. he will be safe”. I don’t watch the news any more and I just want him to enjoy his precious life.
It’s the only way I can breathe. He will be safe.
xx
Yes, we have to let them go as gracefully as we can. But it doesn’t mean the worry stops, does it. And I know what you mean, Vicki Lee. About the breathing thing…
I once read a comment (I can’t remember the author, unfortunately) that the hardest part of letting go is the knowledge that your heart is out there–naked and wandering around, vulnerable–and you can’t do anything about it. That comment so summed up my feelings when my son left home for university. But I tried to take comfort in the knowledge that it was probably one of the most important tasks that I had as a mother– to let him discover, on his own, what I knew he was capable of being. And he has made me so very, very proud.
Beautifully expressed, Marilyn. Thank you for this.
I’m joining your ranks as of Thursday, BLW. College freshman. Still have a teenager at home and we will be going through big brother (and Xbox) withdrawals together, but it’s different for a mama, ain’t it? I think of my mother every day, and how she had to let go of her only child, with pressed lips and a firm nod, saying, “It’s your life now. You decide.” I know her secret now, how she must have dreamed of her little girl being small enough to lift up like a bundle and hold tight forever.
I am reminded that I apparently made it safely, all those times I left her doorstep, and I always came back to see her. So I have to trust he will, too.
Lovely to hear from you Madelia. Yes, it is indeed different for a Mama, and it sounds like yours was very wise.
I trust your son will come back to you with growing appreciation. (Hugs, through these next transitional weeks and months.)
I held my breath as I read this post…because it took me back to an airport, my son in his Army fatigues, and my tears as he boarded the plane on his way to Afghanistan. He came back, whole on the outside but broken on the inside. He used to tell me very little and only what he thought I could handle, but the time came when he shared more and it was so hard for both of us. He is healing on the inside, almost whole again. Thank you for an achingly beautiful post.
Oh, I can’t imagine the anguish you must have gone through. Thank God he came back safely, and that the inside is healing bit by bit. Forgive me if this sounds sexist, but I have always felt that if mothers ruled the world, we would not have war. Period.
Beautiful story, Been there and all worked out time and time again.
Thank you for those good words, Madge.
Oh, how I miss those days. Not the letting go, but the times I had left with my children before they really left home. At the very least, I knew that I had summers and holidays. Now: Fortunately, we see our daughter every few months, since she is only about a 2 1/2 to 3 hours drive. But our son is about 6 hours away. Our visits are limited to just holidays – and I must share those with in-laws (who also get vacations).
A beautiful post. A little bitter-sweet.
“Make a decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body” ~ Elizabeth Stone
Achingly beautiful post.
Lovely quote, Kathy. Thank you.
The sadness of watching them leave never goes away. Mine left yesterday after this summer’s visit, taking with them a part of my heart and leaving big hollow space. Today my son is on the plane, heading to a teaching job in Oman, and my daughter is driving home to southern California. I miss their chatter and their company.
Yes, the chatter and the company.
Very moving post. My son is 30 and I still whisper those words, even as we end phone conversations.
I imagine we always will whisper those words, Jennifer. Part of the parenting package, it seems.
Update: my younger son’s best friend has unexpectedly decided to go to another school this year. “So now I’m losing two people,” he said. He’s the practical, optimistic one in the family, the one who faced the divorce straight on and decided we were better off without his dad’s constant drama. He was banking on afternoons with his best friend to offset the lost time with his best brother. I’m as heartbroken as he is, for him.
In a few years, I’ll be the last one standing… everyone will be have moved on in one way or another. Children, husband, parents. (I’m an only child.) But I’d rather face that than have this boy unhappy. I told him we would have ourselves a full-blown Pity Party, with balloons and boxes of tissues, very soon. He looked at me like I was crazy, of course, but the corner of his mouth went up, so that’s a start.
To this day I still tear up when we say our goodbyes. Doesn’t matter if it’s an airport or a driveway. And, of course, there’s always the prayers sent up for safe journeys. It may be a right of passage that they leave to make their own way, but it doesn’t stop the emptiness that remains after they’re gone.
Just now my son is driving me crazy. And this is what I have to look forward to?
Really, if mothers ruled there would be no war? (Golda Meir was a mother.)
There’s an exception to very rule, no?