That second goodbye

Each morning, I see my teenager to the front door to send him on his way to school. Each time, we pray and embrace. Sometimes we resolve the conflicts that arise from the early morning rush, at other times there may be a last minute exchange about the details and timings of the day and at what time we will reconvene, occasionally there's a last minute prank or a little banter but each and every time, I stand by the door and I wait. 

I wait for his head to glance up, I wait for our eyes to lock and for his hand to rise to wave me farewell. I watch as he looks ahead, there's a pause and then it comes again; that second wave. The one that signifies a final goodbye before I close the door and disappear behind it. Each time (of late at least) it feels like the snip of the umbilical cord where one becomes two in a final act. This boy-man of mine, neither man, neither boy but still my little one. I will carry that second goodbye with me always, in a pocket near my heart just like a good luck charm (if I were to believe in such things), I will tuck his cockeyed half smile up my sleeve for safe keeping in case of needing to draw close to it later on, whilst smiling my own half smile thinking of the many times I have watched my own mother tuck a hanky up her left hand wrist. His purposeful stride, that mirrors his fathers and his fathers before, I will note down hurriedly in the notebook of my mind so that I will come upon words that describe it in detail in the days and weeks and months that are to come.  

Like a super eight film, I see flashes of colour and pop up events that inform of his thirteen years alongside me thus far. I glimpse that first morning feed at the newborn phase, the toddler years curled up with his arms ajar because of the chicken pox in his armpits, where only Winnie the Pooh on repeat would bring comfort, I snatch at the little boy with a raspberry on the end of each finger that devours four, five six ... nine and ten one after another and bares the crimson evidence all across his delighted face. I look over the fence at the child who finds the nookiest of nooks and reads and reads and reads only to forget about the love of reading and then to discover it again and again and forget it. And remember it once more. I cross the road and I see the boy that motions for me, eager to tell me his news, what he likes to eat, what he likes to watch, what he likes to listen to, what he believes strongly in, what makes him laugh, what makes him sad. He calls, then shouts, them whispers, then speaks and tells me softly, openly: 'I don't always want you to cross over the road without me. I can cross alone but we're both headed home so let us walk together.' I squeeze his hand in mine (recalling that it was once smaller than mine) and I whisper to him, 'Let us walk together, let us walk together, let us walk together.' Just then, I hear the clunk of the front door closing, I feel the weight of it on the palm of my hand and I realise all at once, that his life and mine, all of it flashed before my eyes in just a few seconds. In that window between the second goodbye and the close of the door, right there, like a dream. Like that moment between dream and reality, where you're undecided to which world you belong. Like a super eight, super sweet, super fly story of him and I, captured without us ever knowing.  

Nine

I took these photos of my boy over the week-end and they make me smile each time I look at them. He is my heart, all angst and mood swings and adorably long bambi legs. I'm sure there will come a time soon when I will no longer receive permission to write about him here, for now he's fine with it and so I can indulge myself. I write about it simply because I know how easy it is to forget. This boy of mine is almost the same age I was when I lost my father, somehow just carrying that information propels me to collect and store as much as I can about this time and all of the times to come, for fear of it being forgotten or lost, for his sake and mine and all the future offspring that are to come to this clan of ours.

The first picture reminds me so so much of myself, it is alarmingly familiar. I looked this way for a long time I think. I certainly still feel that way often, even now as I quickly approach my fortieth year. Like I say to this boy of mine, some of us are born 'to feel ways about stuff' very strongly and all of the time, our emotions are a set to 'roller coaster' as I like to think of it. Ever-changing. 

This boy of mine like me and like my father, can talk and talk and talk and talk some more and once he's set on talking, there ain't nothing that's gonna stop him. Not even one of my 'Just stop talking, I can't think because I'm doing three things at once' kind of looks. This boy knows just which button to press to make me a crazy, lid off the blender maniac! And I love him even more for that! He also knows how to make the best pouting bottom lip apologies with still a little hint of 'I don't think I'm actually wrong' which I think is inspired by me. He's  much more of a fixer than a sulker and for that I am so grateful since I feel I have spent far too much of my own time over the years sulking, even if I disguised it well. He is a helper and a great reminder, 'remember that shirt dad said he liked', 'remember it's grandma's birthday on the 21st', 'remember you said we could go to the park on our bikes'! He is great company and I love the time that his dad and I get to spend with him alone in the evenings after his younger brother is in bed. 

I love the endless facts that he tells me from his nature books, his science books, the hobbit, lord of the rings. I love the memorised dialogue he recalls from his favourite films and the observations he makes about continuity errors or additional facts that he has from watching the directors talk in the extras, just like his father likes to do. I love to hear him talk animatedly with his dad about stuff that they mutually like that I have absolutely no interest in. Sometimes I'm mean and way too quick to want him to stop talking about said stuff that I have no interest in but I get swept away with guilt because he is so enthusiastic, if feels utterly wrong not to get caught up in it too! I love the tender way he connects to friends and loved ones and the associations he makes with them, like enjoying watching birds in the garden through our glass doors which makes him think of his Laolao or studying facts about trees and plants and animals in Madagascar to remind him of his cousins and aunt and uncle living out there. I love the national geographic magazines left open at the pages of interest on the bathroom floor, the programming text book at his bedside, the bookshelves in our sitting room that are lined with his things - binoculars and coins and homemade traps for bugs and drawings with ideas for 'big projects' that are still in planning stages. All of it. Even the persistent humming. Even the clapping and the cup song and the clicking of fingers and the air guitar accompanied by his reciting of the musical notes he's memorised set to the tune of the latest guitar song he's learning. Imagine E C G D A E B to the tune of Drunken Sailor for example, oh and if he were here he'd correct the letters I've selected and tell me the correct order whilst saying something like: 'I don't mean to be rude but the notes you've written aren't correct.'

I like him. I like him a lot. He is funny, very very funny and dry and witty! He sings in perfect pitch and when you happen upon him singing The Misty Mountains Cold it reduces you to tears. I can't help but think of all that is to come of him and from him. I tell him often that I look forward to spending time with him in all the years to come, I tell him that I'll always look forward to his visits and to hearing about all the things he's into and up to. I hope he remembers this and stops by often.

My eldest son

'Geek' by Zach 

My eldest son and I have a lot in common, we are both sensitive, dramatic, worrier's and we both think that we're funny. We share more than our big hair too, we share in our love of laughter. Now I mean proper can't catch your breathe, spitting tea out of your mouth, sides hurting laughter and it's usually at the expense of others! Well, actually he is far kinder than I. It is normally the case that I might be impersonating someone or something and this kind boy of mine, who is so sensitive to others feelings tries as hard as he can not to laugh but he finally surrenders. Sometimes he pauses for so long as he gathers momentum for his outburst that I worry that he might turn blue, yep that's how funny he finds me! Tonight for example after the youngest had gone to bed, the eldest and I settled down for our new found routine of quality time together which involved drawing stuff, together. Tonights drawings are of 'geeks'! At present it would seem that there are plenty of things that this boy is not certain that I know about, you know like default settings on the remote controls or lyrics by The Ramones or atom bombs or forward rolls. He is quite right to doubt me, I don't really know about these things but all too often I am too proud to admit this to my seven year old. His eyes alone tell a thousand stories and at times I catch 'me' staring right back at me, neither of us backing down. Equally, that mirror of mine is so very quick to tell me he loves the songs I sing at bedtime, the stories I tell, the food I cook, he reminds my hubby to pick up gifts for me that are absolutely to my taste, he suggests a visit to my favourite places that I may have mentioned in passing months ago, he remembers to tell me he loves me over and again and asks if I'm ok when he thinks I might not be. This boy of mine breaks my heart wide open, he makes a lump come to my throat just thinking about the kindness he shows others! Sure I find it annoying that he corrects me and that he rolls his eyes in a certain way when he's unhappy/disappointed/believes he's in the right and all those other little foibles that we each have and gather. But I can't be too hard on him .... I know exactly where he gets it from!

'Geek' by Me

Newborn Zach 2005

Zach by Stuart Tonge  November 2012