Starring Mom

Sitting on the deck outside my mother's house yesterday, taking in the splendor of the quiet suburban afternoon, sipping cold Corona and leisurely puffing Marlboros, remembering many other events in my life that had transpired on the same deck and deeply questioning the direction my life's events are taking was probably the closest to deep meditation I've experienced in many months.

Fighting the alcohol buzz, and the couches call, to summon my son from the televisionary forcefield, inviting him to help me with the cutting of vegetables, the setting of the table, the lighting of the votive candle held in the stained glass holder (a gift from my beloved Aunt Helene), turned into the best night I've enjoyed in many months.

My son is a person I've often avoided emotionally because I have been too obsessed with my own bullshit colored reasons to take the time to properly notice. All the kisses and bed tucks and All Mighty Cult of The Mighty Single Mother Veneration means very little nothing next to my undivided attention.

All my life I dreamed The Dream: that picture under the corporate success example, reserved for those with flamboyant, "Artsy", personalities. That silly dream of stardom and fame and adulation from a million faceless people who could like me, really really, like me.

God gave me one perfect little boy who watches me every minute, every hour, even when I'm not around. And more often than not I'm sitting behind the curtains, wishing the show could get cancelled because I am unsure about my lines, or continually playing the harried, tyrannical, love you but there's so much to do, do as I say not as I do, role over and over and over again.

I'm sorry for the times I've "known best" and not listened, son.
Your strength is ample applause and your actions my ultimate critique.