He dropped the unexpected comment at supper. Casually. It fell among the dishes like a bomb, taking my heart and hopes with it. The shrapnel flew in a hundred directions, lacerating my heart over and over for the next two months.
"I'm gonna rent A___'s third floor when J_____moves out. Probably in January some time. This is gonna be more or less permanent."
I wasn't ready for this. Not yet.
He'd done a ten month mission term, leaving shortly before his 19th birthday. A few months after our family imploded, while we were grief stricken with betrayal, confusion, and loss; a funeral and a major accident overlapped this time as well. Arrows of slander, accusation and blame flew thickly, piercing us every way we turned. Still in shock, we released the Last Chick from the nest, to fly across oceans.
A tumultuous, yet rewarding learning experience, that mission term, for all of us. Homecoming, reconnecting, was joyous. Five months in, re-entry's waves had nearly subsided to calm ripples, and then the announcement, "I'm moving in with J_____ until his wedding." Accountability for J______, and to spread our Youngest Nestling's wings of independence a bit further. Having got used living with those of his own age group all around him, as his own home used to be, and carrying major responsibilities, this business of living with the Trucker and I as the only child left at home was a lonely proposition.
He moved in early May, while we were on the road. A jolting experience it was for the Trucker and I, coming home to an empty house. Flashbacks (if that wasn't such an overused word) to nearly two years prior, when our daughters vanished without warning or explanation. The tears came again. That hollow feeling.
We understood. We came home from service terms too. And we would have not held him back. But we did wish he had discussed this with us, allowed our input before making the decision. Looked at the benefits and drawbacks together. Saw the financial impact, beyond the rent. And how a few months of financial responsibility, including living inexpensively at home, would put him in a much better place, sooner.
Summer came and went. Fall ushered in the wedding. Meantime, much learning took place. Mama winced at the stress evident in his face and mannerisms at times. The clothes that needed laundering, the wrinkled dress outfits, shirts straining at the seams, resulting from the daily lifting that was his job, and too-tight jeans, evidence of frequent fast food when time was short.
He moved home again, furniture laden with dust and leaves, every item of clothing in desperate need of laundering. Five months of paperwork and filing to be done, calendar updated. "Mom, if you could just do a load of laundry so I have a clean outfit for work tomorrow? And yeah, if you have time, could you do my filing? No, you're not intruding. You know more about my life than anyone else anyway, and I hate filing! About breakfast and packing lunches....I was kinda hoping we could go back to the way it was before....?"
Someone to care for again. Someone who needs what I have to offer, and is willing to accept it. Warm fuzzies chased each other around my heart, even as the inevitable knowledge that this is temporary dampened their fluff.
We settled into a routine, then. A mutual calendar in the kitchen, listing the part of our lives that overlapped. He was good that way, telling me his plans. Once again, I had the privilege of him stopping for long chats over a snack late at night, unscrewing jar lids that defeated me, plowing snow, feeding the cats when we were on the road. His friends once again surrounded the kitchen table for noisy games of Code Name and Rook on Sunday nights. He was permitted his opinions and lifestyle, and willingly heard and accepted ours.
Five months in, again, we wished he had included us in the decision making process. Stayed home, saved his money. I didn't want to lose his companionship, the connection to his life. But as a grown man, his decisions and the consequences thereof, were his own.
Moving day came. He was packed a week in advance, as his calendar was also packed, that last week.
Clothing was laundered, mended, ironed, for the last time. My mind had gone round and round those last weeks. "What could I send to make the adjustment easier? Yet not overstep that unspoken, unseen boundary?" Food ingredients, to help with cooking til grocery shopping could happen. Cleaning supplies, laundry baskets. His lunch box, and extra containers. Bedding.
He loaded his truck single handedly, generously allowing his mama to help this last time, yet protective, that she not overdo.
We drove separately. A____ was waiting, cheerfully assisting with the heavy pieces. Mama was assigned to stay in the room, unpack books, update the once again neglected filing. She fit in a bit of cleaning, before anyone could remonstrate. Happy chatter and jokes flew freely.
At last, not all was done, but what was important to him. It was time to go. No goodbye hugs, no prayers, such as his brother received. He'd left home before, after all. I knew such would break the carefully held composure, and he was coming next day for lunch. I turned back just once, for a photo of the house, having forgotten to take any of the "upper room" that was now his. He anticipated me from the window.
And just like that, my mothering was over. Finished. What does one do when the life she had prepared for, fought for, lived - is done?
As I drove away, turned right on the street and left onto the highway, the dam broke. All the unshed tears flowed, my voice cracked as I called on God to carry me through yet another adjustment I didn't want. Was it just that the Last Chick had left the family nest? In part, yes. This is never easy.
But I didn't want to give this event more than its due. In reality, the cumulative effect of the previous three years' griefs, losses, changes and stresses had finally found that last-straw event. And the camel's back at long last had buckled. I wept those losses and griefs, again, while feeling along with them pride, a sense of completion, and deep-down-to-the-bone exhaustion.
A normal happening in every family, this. Though we've learned things almost never look like they are supposed to in our dreams. Life almost never turns out the way we plan.
How, then, do we react when our dreams are hijacked, rearranged, even slaughtered without our permission? When life spins out of our hands, beyond our control? The Trucker and I know what doesn't work, to be sure. There are no guarantees. But we have done the best possible, with what has been given us, and in this is rest.
We know Who holds the past, present, and the future. And He holds our hands while we wait, and weep.
*****
Mothering finished? House empty? There is still the trail of "feathers" the Last Fledgling left in his wake. And one more pair of jeans to launder and mend. And shirts to iron and return.
Mothering finished? Not while there are prayers left to pray. When we are both in the palm of God's hand, we are not so far apart after all.
