Mother's Son

I'll ne'er forget her on that afternoon, truly the last full sun before she began to fret and show her ills. She gave Lawson such a round about not shading his wife and letting his children range frightfully close to the lake. He protested with much vinegar in his tone, but she knew it was half jest. Bless my heart, he's like her. He finally laughed as she ran her hand through the clustering curls of his hair, though she could barely reach them.

Was any other son ever so querulously doting on his mother? Whether giving a tease or taking one, they did so each enjoy the company of the other. Most times, I felt no more than audience. Even so, I regret it not. Watching was enough, though the time I was given to do so seemed all too short.

Soon on the heels of that precious holiday in the park, the year and her life faded. I did not take it in stride. He knew as well as I what was likely in the time to come, but never did his smile wane before her eyes. In that, he was stronger than his father. Still is. I do love him, more than I care to show. I trust he knows it.

He can be terribly officious to help me, so much so that on occasion I have uncharitably thought, Have you no life of your own to molest? Of course he does. He has a family to tend and they visit appropriately often. But in truth, I am most rejoiced to see him when he comes unfettered. Tis strange his being so familiar with me and offering advice to my inexperience, as if he had a wealth of it in living alone. Yet somehow he knows and is a comfort.

I oft wonder if my beloved Deena is in his ear even now or secretly coached him on how to take charge of me for this stage of my own life without her. Funny that I'd not realized they'd ever taken such notice of me, being separated from them by their special bond.

By this time, he might be given to ruffling his fingers through my curls, had I any. Instead, he comes to check, to chide, to set me for the space between, then leaves after a night with a handshake and a pat on my shoulder. Once in a while, if I do not rise from my worn chair to see him off, he leans to press a brief kiss to my balding pate. I wave him off of course and nearly curse him for the foolish maneuver. In response, I get a cocky farewell and a smirking grin, satisfied he'd put one over. I grant him a reluctant chuckle, and save my heartfelt smile for when he's down the road. I trust he knows it.