Good Night Son

Four years.

Four first day of school days each of the past four Septembers.  Four last day of school days each of the past four Junes.

Four of every imagineable holidays: Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, Halloween, Fourth of July, Mothers Day... Birthdays...

Four years of missing out.

Four years worth of "go take a shower" and "is your homework done?", and "I said turn off the lights, it's way past bedtime".

Four years worth of dinner around the table and holding hands for saying grace and "get your elbows off the table" and "use your napkin NOT your jeans!" and "eat your veggies...okay half... ok fine, three bites... no that doesnt' count as a bite... fine just clear your plate".  Four years worth of sighing.

Four years worth of, "wake up, good morning!" and "are you up?" and, "lets go, come on!" and,  "GET UP!" and "RUNRUNRUN we're late!"

Four years of uncountable things gone, missed, lost, irretrievable.

Four years worth of every other Saturday, 9-9 only.

Four years worth of  "Good night son, I love you, sleep tight, sweet dreams..." uttered only to myself and the shadows in an empty room.

But last night... last night I rustled up sheets, blankets, an extra pillow.  Never mind that it was 90 degrees, and humid, I was going to make a proper bed up with sheets and blankets and pillows.  Last night I found clean towels and a bedside lamp and an extra charger for the mp3.  And then... oh God, I tucked my son into bed, in MY house, and said, "Good night son, I love you, sleep tight, sweet dreams..."

He is more than 6 feet tall now.  He has man hair on his arms and legs.  He has muscled biceps and stubble on his cheeks. He smells not of sweaty little boy, and grass, and cookies, but of deodorant, of "man".  And I hugged him and tucked him in and slept in the same house with my little boy for the first time in four years.

I woke up and made his lunch.  I nagged him to hurry, to get his book, did he remember his key, his water bottle, his backpack?  I drove him to his high school and joined the line of parents dropping off their kids.  Just like I used to do four years ago before our lives changed.  It was instinctual though, the merging into the carpool lane and inching forward little by little, the nagging...  He said goodbye as he unfolded himself out of the car, and I said, "See ya later Bud, have a good day" just like any other parent.

Four years gone... but yet this one day was heaven.

Tonight I pray will be another night I can hug him and whisper to him, "Goodnight son, I love you..."