Each one had been longed for and wondrously delivered to my care – for a season.
Ever since they were three teenagers,
Out exploring and claiming their world,
I’ve known that my greatest fear is losing a son.
I have memories of mishaps.
The time I closed the garage door automatically from the kitchen
And when I reopened it out came my son riding on his Big Wheel.
Thank goodness I hadn’t closed the door on him.
Or when one son, horsing around outside, pushed his brother into a window-well,
Breaking the silence of our adult evening meal with the crash of glass splintering.
No one was hurt.
Or the time a son, sledding on a neighborhood hill, colliding with rocks at the bottom,
Appeared at our door, dazed, carried in the kind arms of a stranger,
Bleeding stanched by the man’s clean white handkerchief.
I’m not afraid of mishaps.
Only later did I begin to taste fear.
Following his own trail in the Alleghany Forest, my teenage son got separated from his dad overnight on a camping trip.
A telephone call reported his loss to me. Rangers and dogs were searching.
Meanwhile my lost son, happening upon a dirt road, walked along and found his searchers.
He maintained that his dad was the lost one. He knew where he was. No one was afraid but me.
Another son, a newly-minted college graduate, went West to seek his fortune.
Luggage lost by airline, sleeping on the couch of friend too poor to afford a phone,
Trying to set up job interviews on a pay phone, no luck there,
Coming down with mono, coming back home. This time I wasn’t afraid, but my heart ached dreadfully.
My youngest son was still at home when I left him in his father’s care to spend weeks away pursuing a new degree.
I never imagined mothers were so necessary. He let me know. He acted out.
He and a friend took a screw driver to break into the Junior High building. They set off the alarm, calling the police.
Police turned them over to the Principal, who disciplined them ordering Community peer counseling. My son taught me a new lesson about fear.
My first reaction to my son’s acting out was to give up going back to school and go home. I was afraid of not being a good mother.
I thought further and decided that his being the catalyst for my giving up my dream was a burden I didn’t want him to carry.
That was a huge step for me – trusting I loved him, and myself, enough to make this decision.
I let go of being afraid of marching to my own drumbeat.
My sons are grown. I still fear for their well-being and disappointments, whatever lies ahead. But I trust life and their ability to manage its challenges.
And I celebrate what we’ve taught each other about fear.