The Best Thing

 The Best Thing

My bicep isometrically holds his head in comfortable slumber. Squished together in economy seats built for people who solace in community. These days he pushes me away aggressively. 13 year olds need space to breathe and stretch out their tentacles, to sense their world without the safety net, knitted and stitched so meticulously, layers of tissue that seem for so long to perpetually synthesize.

“Out of my room!” a finger points me at the door, and then points again. 

“Why are you so mean to me?” is a ridiculous question, a mother cannot expect a clear answer from neuroendocrine hormones coursing through stretchy veins. She applies a careful line of feedback - just enough - to penetrate his fog of adolescent steroids.

“Away!”, “Away!” his finger points. There he goes out the door to pursue his quest to discover surroundings not chosen by his parents or his older brother. His bicycle, his skateboard, his fishing pole take him to undeveloped hillsides, staircases, and sections of dried up creeks that still have hidden pools of water deep enough for a single large mouth bass to find sanctuary in underground caves. 

These are the nuggets that gently carve him into an animal distinct from all others. His stride, his grip, his sense of the mixture of gases and aromas that fill the Earth’s atmosphere are all his unique construction.

Still, there it is-

In that small tug, my forearm gently pulled and used as comfort again, in a tightly packaged economy seat. Hard to notice how heavy his head has grown until it leans over onto my shoulder. I take joy in the weight, the warmth and the embrace. An hour of stillness, I smooth out his hoodie, protecting his fuzzy ears and shield my reading light from his eyes.