a week of roots
1. Sister
TK is home for the first time since he left for college.
He makes it a mission to catch up with me. I don't respect this effort as much as I should and we almost miss each other. As it is, we end up squeezing in a late dinner after my class in a less than ideal location.
The first thing I notice is that he has, in the improbable span of six weeks, become a man. At least on the outside. I have known TK for almost four years. He was a young high school student when I started as his Math tutor. He has not needed a Math tutor in a very long time, although, until he left for school, he still visited me weekly. Sometimes, he would wander around my kitchen until he found enough rations to make us a meal. Other times, he would accompany me on my errands around the neighborhood. He never really cared what we did. He only cared about being able to visit, and to talk.
At some point, without either one of us noticing, TK became a kid brother.
He slips into that skin clearly when we sit down.
We sit there a long time, talking. Actually, he talks and I listen. He unlocks his life and asks for advice, commiseration, and a safe place to be.
When we say goodbye, he tells me how important it was to see me.
Something catches in my throat, just slightly, when we hug goodbye. I will miss him. When he left a few weeks ago, I did not feel this. Maybe I did not miss him until he came home.
~
I almost cancelled on him because I am always tired after class and I like to go home.
I am glad I didn't.
2. Mother
The first time I see them after the funeral, he calls me Mama and reaches from L's arms to me. His sister, only 20 months behind him in age but with far fewer words, just keeps chanting Mama, Mama, Mama, over and over from her stroller. I lean over and kiss her head before sitting down on the couch and lifting him into my lap so he faces me.
Hey, bunny, you remember that I am not your Mama, right? We talked about that. A long time ago.
He squirms and squiggles into the crook of my arm and strokes my chin with his small hand. He seems not to hear me.
You are special to me, very very special, but I am not your Mama. You know, we can find a new word that will belong just to us, to show us how special we are to each other.
He continues to ignore me. I glance at L, whose face tells me to let this go right now. J and H need someone who will promise not to leave them alone in the world. The labels are unimportant today.
The only important thing today is that I will cradle him until he goes to sleep. I will feed his sister and she will sleep with me because she is afraid, these days, of her crib. In the morning, she will wake me up by smashing her little head on mine giving me good morning kisses. We will follow a morning routine and there will be time to roll around on the floor under the sheet fort before I need to go back home.
When I leave, J and I sit with the calendar and point out the days until I come back. I tell him I will call him before bath time, and he only cries a little when I drive away.
I cry a little too, for 40 miles or so.
Maybe this is a little of what it means to be a mother.