He's Gone Again

There is an abiding comfort a mother feels in those moments when she knows her child is safe and snug in his bed. That he is no longer a little boy has no relevance.

Keifer moved out a week ago. He is sharing an apartment 30 miles away with a friend. This time around, he was with me for two years, since just around the time of my multiple myeloma diagnosis. He had lost his previous residence because the owner decided to move his elderly mother into the house so he could care for her. Keifer’s roommate went his own way, so Keifer chose to come back home. It was fortuitous, as I was just beginning chemotherapy treatments in preparation for a stem cell transplant, and having him near was a blessing.

Now that he’s gone, there’s more room in my fridge, space to put my V-8’s where his Coca-Colas used to be. No more baking sheets left on the stove top. No more sounds of good-natured chit chat, guffaws, and ovations spilling into the hallway upstairs from victories among gamers. No more quiet footsteps in the wee hours of the morning followed by the clack of the deadbolt slipping into its slot as he locked the front door on his way out to work. I have my spare bedrooms back, refreshed and ready for friends to visit.

He’s gone again, and that is as it should be. After all, he’s a man, and every man should have a place of his own so he can pursue his life goals without constraints.

But I miss him. The house is quieter and the sound of it is deafening. Even as I knew well ahead of time of his departure, I also knew it would be hard. He’s my firstborn, special in so many ways. He’s not much like me, I admit. He’s more like his father in temperament. Easy going. Seemingly unflappable.

Living with his mom and five cats would be constraining for any 31-year-old, and in my case, it wasn’t always a tranquil state of affairs either. But Keifer can ride his mother’s moods like a champion surfer balances inside the barrel, smooth and steady as he drags his hand along the shimmering curve to slow the momentum ahead of the wave. I miss him coming home in the afternoon, dropping onto the sofa and propping his feet on the coffee table as he tells me about his day, asking if I need anything before he heads upstairs to shower. As in times before, I’ll be busy unloading the dishwasher early in the morning, and with every pan and every glass I set in its place in the cabinets, I think of him sleeping upstairs on his day off, exhausted from his demanding work schedule, and I feel a sudden pang in my chest because I know he’s not there anymore. There is an abiding comfort a mother feels in those moments when she knows her child is safe and snug in his bed. That he is no longer a little boy has no relevance. He is my boy, still and always a part of me no matter how far away life takes him. He is a fine young man, self-reliant, articulate, thoughtful. Worthy of honor from those who call him friend or colleague.

Even though he doesn’t call my little townhouse home anymore, it’s an unspoken certainty that he would be here in a flash if I needed him. As far as I’m concerned, my home is as open as my heart will always be, if he needs me, and he doesn’t have to live here for me to know that he does.

God bless you, Keifer. Mom loves you.