Mothers Wait...

It is a beautiful warm day in September. The smell of freshly cut grass and gasoline fills the air. Manicured lawns

and perfectly cut topiary surround the houses. A young man is walking lithely down a tree lined suburban street. He is wearing a maroon hooded sweatshirt emblazoned with the logo of his high school basketball team.  He is not aware of the long fingers that pull aside lace curtains in curiosity. He does not fear the suspicious blue eyes that peer at him over the tops of over pruned rhododendrons. The gnarled knuckles that habitually caress the buttons on the old fashioned phone tab labelled police are not an image that he has ever seen. His stride is not broken as droplets of water from a hose splash across his young face. His is used to the look of disapproval on the face of the man watering his lawn. He is oblivious and unconcerned when  little tikes stop their bikes and stare. The young man is 6 feet tall, unassuming and intently grooving to the lyrics and beat on concealed headphones attached to an ipod in his pocket. His eyes are protected with a stylish pair of foster grants as he is walking towards the late afternoon sun. He dips a little to the right as he keeps time with a mix that is a tad too loud. Occasionally, he flips a bird at a familiar figure that passes him on the other side of the street. His stomach growls and he can nearly taste the dinner that he hopes is waiting in his own kitchen. It is his mom's day off. His over large name brand  jeans make his legs look much shorter as the logo on the back pocket falls just above the bend in his knees. He turns onto a familiar block. The lawns are no longer perfectly manicured. People on this street greet him warmly. He is nearly home.

She watches him from the kitchen window. He is still her little boy. She has one eye for him and another for the

four year old who waits patiently on the front steps. Her heart pounds. She wishes he would cross the street already. As she watches him get closer, she does not miss the headphones being popped out of his ears. She takes note of the hood that is thrown back away from his closely cropped hair. She smiles her secret smile that only a mother may understand as he loosens his belt without breaking his stride. He hikes his pants up and tightens his belt before crossing the street. She does not make a move to leave the window until he is safely on their side of the street and the little girl is in the wind running towards him. The hem of her apron goes to her eyes as the  child in pigtails dashes down the street calling his name. She watches as her daughter's little arms surround her big brother's knees. He pretends to hate the embrace, but he cannot hide his love. The little girl is scooped up as they play out the sibling family ritual dance. She returns to the stove. As the door opens, she yells over her shoulder. "Wash your hands, both of you. Dinner is ready."    The table is set for 3.

We have all seen the image. This teenager is someone we love. He walks out of our houses every day and we hold the place on our Mother's chest as he disappears around the corner on his way to school. He wears his vulnerability like a red badge of courage and we wear our fear on our sleeves like summer tears.