From the Fog to the Forest and What Lays Beyond

I see it happening.

The shoulders widening, muscles multiplying, hands now larger than mine, the small hairs that parallel his upper lip, like a trail along a creek that leads to the sea.

The hairs he shakes his head at in rapid defiant bursts side to side, whenever someone says, "Elias, you're getting a mustache!"

No I'm not! he seems to say.

I'm not changing, not growing, not rearranging within this awkward body of mine, awash with hormones that make me say 'I don't know' to an array of questions, that make me hungry night and day.

I plan to stay the same, to wear my same old clothes despite the new ones for Christmas, stick to my too-small jacket with brushfire burn-holes that leave a trail of small white feathers in my wake, despite the new coat hanging on a hook by the stairs.

Make no mistake, I shake my head at adolescent change.

Sure, I'll march down that number line, so sequential and ordered, excited to turn fourteen because it comes after thirteen which follows twelve, the number after eleven, but I have not agreed to the rest of the changes that come with age.

I don't understand this transitory stage between childhood and adulthood and so I will call your name--Mom, Mom, Mom--one thousand three hundred and thirty times a day...

Mom, can you get me water? ("Pour yourself a drink.")

Mom, what's for dinner? ("You'll see...")

Mom, can you help me get the shampoo out? ("You can do it, Bud, keep trying. You gotta get your head under the water first, now look up, run your hands through your hair...")

Mom, are we going swimming today? ("Yep, you just said that.")

Mom, can you help me fix my sock? ("You try first.")

Mom, Mom, Mom....("You're interrupting, hold on.")

Hold on.

Maybe we are both trying to hold onto to the remaining days of childhood, as if we could stop time instead of forging into the unknown forest of adolescence and adulthood, where nothing is as certain as the sound of my name.

Mom: the meaning remains the same both forward and backwards, three simple letters, rounded and curved, as familiar as a womb, as the returning full moon, as the mountains standing guard, more worn, less hard.

Mom, Mom, Mom...

Or maybe not. 

Maybe Elias does want to mature and explore beyond my five foot two reach.

Maybe what he's feeling is that anticipatory terror mixed with longing, glee even, to purge ahead; the way I feel when I stare too long at a blank page.

The unknown paralyzes me, even as I feel called to fill the void with words.

I don't yet know the story ahead, what I will discover within the garden of language, what unexpected fruits will ripen as I write one phrase after another, until the page transforms from a white fog to lines with meaning--so before I begin, I often feel stalled in this in-between place, on the edge of inertia and the unraveling of whats within the synapses of my mind.

I am not in my son's head, despite endless sentences seeking a keyhole, a secret back door where only those that truly love him dare enter, a porthole to understanding the complexity within his injured resilient and always maturing mind.

All I can do is follow his lead, I've said it before and I'll say it again-- All I can do is follow Elias.

Follow Elias's uncertain but deftly navigated trail into the abyss of what lays beyond the horizon. Beyond childhood, beyond what I can currently imagine from these brackish waters where the creek gradually becomes the sea.

Comments

[Nancy Yeaton]

love, love, love to read what you share, the words are captivating, thank you...

[Noel G Dennehy]

Happy Day Late Birthday!! Can't wait to catch up with your parents when they come and stay at the end of their Florida trip.
Love your blogs