Mother and Son

He loves his mother.

He had an image from his childhood in his head of her chasing him up and over hills in the park near their house. In his mind, he can almost hear her laughing with fall leaves colourfully highlighting the world around him. They run together, tossing and tumbling as if they were leaves themselves. He was 8 and felt so warm inside.

She loves her son.

He calls her on the phone in the evening. He would call more often, but he is so busy. At least he sounds very content. She misses him so much. He reassures her that all is okay, that he'll be home soon, that he is happy. She wants to tell him about her fears, her concerns, her health, but she says nothing. Each word he speaks is like a drop of water, hydrating her as she wanders aimlessly through the desert. Goodbyes are said, he promises to call again soon and she holds the phone to her heart looking around the house that had once felt so alive and was now a shell of its former self.

He loves his mother.

Her life had not been easy. The youngest of five daughters, raised by a gruff and preoccupied father and a loving, yet strict mother during the depression. They were poor and always hungry and her childhood was devoid of fun. She fell in love at a young age and never looked back. She had always wanted a child and when he arrived she literally felt as if she was flying.

She loves her son.

They were at the pharmacy. She was buying some medicine for him. He was sick. She remembers the panic she felt, the racing of her heart, the dampness of her sweat, the furrowing of her brow, the coldness of his hand. She tried to summon up the strength to fight off the feelings of doom - "he needs me to be strong". And she was. And he got better, but she often remembered being in the pharmacy late at night, in moments of weakness, just wishing and praying it would all be okay.

He loves his mother.

She had spent years cleaning hotel rooms and never complained once. Early mornings, late evenings, missed holidays, she worked so that he could have everything he would ever desire. She would come home from another long day looked utterly exhausted wanting nothing but to soak her feet and lay her head down, yet she always found the energy to be there for him.

She loves her son.

He was tall, lean, athletic. He had a way with words and an ease about him that drew in others. He would sit around the table, at holiday time, surrounded by aunts and uncles and cousins and be able to keep the company engrossed in his mix of uniquely, bewildering stories. While the family enjoyed the traditional homemade sausages that he had spent the afternoon preparing, she would watch him with awe and amazement in what a wonderful man he had become.

He loves his mother.

Somewhere a song is playing - he can't quite remember it's name. She is in the kitchen making something, anything - the aroma captures him while he works on his homework at the table. He smiles and enters the kitchen to hug his mother as if the only thing that could make it all okay was this single hug. She sang a few words of the song and he felt a tear drop on his hair as they stood there together, being warmed by the oven; a perfect moment in time.

She loves her son.

He looked back and waved. She tried to smile, but was overwhelmed by the moment. The bus was leaving and taking her baby far away. She wished he was young again; her adorable son bouncing off to kindergarten, that he still needed his mommy as only a little boy could. The sounds of the bus leaving the station saddened her and she bit her lip to keep from crying. He waved once more and turned around to find a seat as the bus headed down the long, straight road away from this place. She stood there feeling so utterly alone.

He loves his mother.

The proudest moment of her life, she told him, was when he graduated from university. She had succeeded as a mother. His adolescence had been dotted with bumps and bruises - she felt each of them as if she were a boxer in the ring. She dreamed of a future graduation, even when that dream became fuzzy and distorted at times, and never let go. He knew how much it mattered to her and he had always wanted to give her this moment. It drove him forward.

She loves her son.

The water is running in the video. A bath is being drawn. Her image enters the screen caring a crying, naked baby. It is him. He is but one year old. He hates baths. She gently caresses his arms and legs, soothing him. He loves the soapy bubbles and he giggles and splashes hesitantly at first and then more and more playfully once used to the bath. Shampoo stings his eyes and he cries and grows red. There is loving laughter in the background.

They love each other.

From the first moment she laid eyes on him, her life changed. Much of his first moments of life were spent in her arms. He always felt so cared for, so adored, so blessed. She held his hand, tied his shoes, packed his lunch. And yet, she needed him as much as he needed her. He gave her life; made her laugh as no one else ever could and gave her a purpose that no man or job or anything else ever did. She was always there for him; he had such a deep respect for her -  a previously meek and mild, single mother in a big city dominated by men who grew into the toughest person he knew. Their lives were forever intertwined, like two individual pieces of wicker in a woven basket, twirling around and around each other, supporting and making each other stronger - it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

Mother loves; son loves.

Love.