Every mother-son interaction that I have recently stumbled upon has been deeply affecting me. It doesn’t matter if the son is in his sixties, teens, or infancy, my sorrow thermometer shoots up at the sight of any love and care exhibited in every unique relationship between a mom and her boy.
I watch American Idol and see the pride shaping the countenance of every mother there to support her son. I am struck by the elementary aged boy who gently places his arm around his mom’s waist as they stand together in church. I sit in the coffee shop and watch a senior son take care to get his ailing mom a comfortable seat and a cup of coffee just the way she likes it. I go to the park and observe the moms helping their toddler sons across the bridge to ensure their safety. I see the new mom look down at her infant son with the glistening eyes I vividly recall having when I gazed upon my baby Jud. I hear the concern as a mom shares about her young adult son’s recent decisions that are hurting her at the very core. I observe the mom who joins her mid-life son and his family at a restaurant, all the while delighting in the joy he directly and indirectly brings to her life…
My son is gone.
I miss my son.