Wednesday, July 31, 2013
There are no big hugs, no fireworks, no popping of champagne corks, no releasing of balloons. Nobody throws confetti when he steps out of the car. I want this to be normal so I pretend this is normal.
Dinner's ready. I've made one of your favorites. Extra spicy. This time I made it from scratch.
I tell myself I'd smile like this any day of the week and I try not to need too much and he's not hungry and we'll go visit Pop and Grammie 'cause I want to show him off and he's home and I've missed him.
And I want to take a picture and there is a camera but I'd have to turn my head to pick it up.
I don't want to turn my head.
His hair is longer than I remember, curling with the day old face scruff and he looks relaxed like he's going to Florida or something but here he is pacing on a porch and telling stories and if he takes a breath I'll wait because more than anyone or anywhere else I feel connected to him and space.
Carry on, my son. Carry on.
The boy is home and I can't even begin to express how grateful I am so I'll just say this is normal and for a few days we'll pretend it is.