As I stood at the sink washing them, I looked up and found myself looking at my son again through the window. He had finished weeding and was now watering the flower beds. It looked like he had intentionally splashed some water onto his body. There were streaks of water on his arms, stomach and chest. There were drops of mist on his face and hair. Normally I would have just smiled at his playfulness, but today I felt somewhat uncomfortable, even guilty. I couldn’t help but remember Sam’s engrossed look as I saw a drop or two hanging on his lips. Two things came to mind quickly: One, why was he using the hose when we had sprinklers, and two, why was I washing dishes by hand when we had a dishwasher. I quickly left the kitchen and went to my bedroom, cursing Samantha under my breath for putting her thoughts into my head.
Around four or so in the evening, as I was trying to get through a ton of laundry, he came to the garage and said, “I am going out, mom.”
As I saw him standing in the doorway, dressed in slacks and shirt, wearing dress shoes, hair combed with a part on one side, and a tuft of hair hanging on his forehead nuzzling his right eyebrow, I understood for the first time what Samantha was talking about.
“Have fun, honey.” I tried to be as nonchalant as possible as I turned my attention immediately to the washing machine. I was unable to look him in the eyes for some reason.
When I heard the front door shut close, I ran to the garage door. There was a stepladder next to the tools counter. I quickly grabbed it and used it to look through one of the glass panes on top of the door. His car was parked across the road to keep it safe from the lawnmower. He took long and confident steps as he walked towards it. I saw him press the remote to unlock the car. I saw him open the door and swing his head from left to right to look around before getting into the car. That tuft of hair swung in the opposite direction. The movement of his head was so sensuous that something snapped inside of me, or maybe something came right, I don’t know, but I almost slapped myself for the thoughts that were now echoing Samantha’s words.
He was big and strong and looked like a man. I felt warm around my neck and my heart skipped a beat or two as I realized that my reaction was so foreign, yet so vaguely familiar. I felt ashamed at the sweet pain that had suddenly started to emanated from my heart. My legs felt weak at the realization that a certain part of my being hadn’t died those many years ago; instead it was alive and well and able to kick-start at the slightest nostalgic provocation.
It was my son—for God’s sake—that was the catalyst to bring those feelings out that I had buried deep within my frozen self, and it wouldn’t have been possible without Sam, although her contribution was minute compared to the outcome. As I stepped down, I was feeling guilty, again, and very ashamed. I took a few deep breaths to calm down and quickly came back to the machine to get my mind off the subject.