During the 1970s, my older brothers Mark and Kevin slept in an unfinished room in the basement. Periodically, they would leave the house during the night through the back door, situated at the far end of that room. When they did so, they would leave our mother a note, pinned to the door or resting on one of their beds. The most famous of these said, Mom, Me and Frank went for a walk; we were not kidnapped. MARK”.
I came down this morning and found a note from my son tucked into the coffee pot. It invited me to wake him for coffee on the porch before I left for work. My heart sang. Have i become my mother? Gosh, I hope so. Like his uncles before him, I hope Patrick recognizes both his independence and his inter-dependence; his sameness and his separateness.
We had our coffee on the porch, as the morning rain watered the Mother’s Day vincas. We talked of things great and small. Later, as I drove to work, I saw the tiniest glimmer of a rainbow off in the distance. Perhaps somewhere in the great cosmos, in the wide expanse of collective consciousness, or maybe, just in heaven, my mother Lucille and her youngest son Stephen Patrick gazed down on Patrick and me. I imagine them side by side, as they often sat on the brick porch back in Jennings, in our old metal lawn chairs, each with a cup of coffee resting on the brick wall in front of them.
And they are smiling.