The prodigal son returned last evening.  He had been fed and encouraged by his aunt en route from Evanston to Kansas City, and arrived in Brookside at ten, tired, looking taller than I remember, and bearing gluten-free cookies.  The dog went crazy and the house instantly seemed smaller.

I find myself listening to the noises in my head, the constant roar which tells me that my brain cannot properly discern what it hears.  Most days silence surrounds me, only interrupted by this phantom symphony, violins played solely for me.  I have become so solitary in my home that the rise and fall of these ghostly sounds no longer bothers me.  I take some comfort from it.

But now my son’s voice again flows through the space, waking echoes of the past.  I remember this:  His brand of humor; his slight self-deprecation; his intermittent gentle scolding of his mother.  He reminds me, you know I can’t understand you when you laugh, and I laugh all the more.  The prodigal son has been away for six months this stretch, since Christmas, and I suspect it will be another six months before I see him again.  I’m not complaining, though.  I wanted him to “go away to college” so that he would have his own life, and that has come to pass, two degrees later.  He has become an adult, and I have assumed the role of aging mother whom he visits from time to time.  He has evolved but retains his essence.  He still gets my jokes, even if he finds them a little lame.   He still mirrors some of my genes, though he has bent their contours to his will.  He still feels like family, even if the closets have been emptied of his clothing.

After the dreadful massacre in Orlando this week, I find myself strangely relieved to hear my son’s voice and see his grin.  Other mothers faced the slaughter of their sons and daughters.  The light faded from the eyes of other sons.   I am blessed.  I am grateful.  My prodigal son has roamed far but he has safely returned, if only for a brief sojourn.  I have no complaints today.

It’s the fifteenth day of the thirtieth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.