Wednesday, December 12, 2012

When We're Old

Kindergarten afternoon.  The kids are sitting on the floor watching their teacher.  I stand in the back, coat in hand, purse on shoulder.  A minute or two passes.  My son, the social one, looks around and notices me in the back.  He smiles, and I smile back.  He kisses his hand, blows it to me.  I kiss mine, blow it to him.  He catches it and puts it in his pocket.

These days are numbered.  My little boy who wants to give me a second kiss, even in the first-grade hallway if the first one was 'off'. 

Tonight I baked two batches of Christmas treats for the teachers in our life.  I was tired.  I came over and sat down at the dining room table where homework was happening.   I put my head down on the table, and my son said, "You are tired, mom."  He reached over and put his hand on my arm.  In the touch of his hand on my arm, I could feel his hand at age forty or fifty, as he is a man who has lived a bulk of his life.

The other night when I went up to bed, I found him in the bathroom two hours after his bedtime.  He was half asleep, so I picked him up to take him back to bed.  I cradled my five-year-old in my arms and said to him, "Take care of us when we're old." He nodded.

When he's fifty, and I'm eighty, I know he'll still catch the kisses I blow to him from across the room.

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