I
heard your voice calling my name and it pulled me from a sound sleep and
deposited me back in the waking world with a thump, not unlike a gasping fish
dumped on the deck of a boat, gills straining.
You
called my name. Not my given name that the world knows me by, but by my secret
name. Mom, pronounced Mwaahm, in that way that only our own children can call
us, name and need in one. "Mwaahm," and so I abandoned sleep, left my warm bed
and hurried to the front door and unlocked it.
You
were not there of course. You do not need me like that anymore. My work there
is done, my role now more ceremonial, the name - an honoraria of the past.
I
stood in the doorway, looking out into the darkness of the pre-dawn hours,
trying to understand how this had all happened. You called me, I heard your
voice, full of need of me, a touch of impatience that often accompanies the
requests---demands, really—of all children, even our older children. Adult now,
that voice--- yet somehow wrapped in the echo of infant past. I could hear your
voice plainly, knew immediately which of my children it was that had required
me. I heard your voice, muffled a bit from calling me through the thick walls
and locked doors of time, but heard clearly; nuanced and immediately
understood.
Where
did you go? Where is the tiny infant, the curly-headed toddler, the little boy
who once told me after a good night ritual, “When we kiss, it makes a sound
like music,” where is that child?
My
heart thumping from the adrenalin rush that propelled me from sleep to response;
I return to bed. But not to sleep, merely lying there, waiting for the clock to
move, waiting for daylight. Waiting for it to become a reasonable time to text
you, to say good morning. Waiting to make contact, playing off my deep need to
know you are all right, ‘Just wanted to check in,” I’ll say to the man who is
my son. Perhaps
this all seems silly to you. Not yet a father yourself, you don’t speak the
same language I do. You do not yet live in the Land of Parenthood, your
passport bears no stamps; your heart, no scars.
Your time in the trenches will come. You will
be pulled from sleep to answer a call. A small voice will demand water, a cry
will come for comfort, and you will put aside your own needs, your own comfort,
to answer.
It will be the best job you ever have,
answering that call in the night-- even if it only turns out to be a dream.
