“Mom!” “Mom!” “Mom!”
His voice, a touch louder than a whisper, demanded my attention despite my deep need for sleep. “Mom, look! Look what I can do!”
I pushed my book aside and rose to my elbows. My glasses were still perched on my nose. “Mom!”
His 5’10” lanky frame pirouetted on the red carpet in front of me. He’s so much larger than he used to be when every step he took was a ‘look at me’ step, a twirl on the trail to where he is now.
I rubbed my eyes. He twisted again and again and again, throwing his arms up above his head, pendulating. Ballet? I thought.
“Mom, are you watching? Look-what-I-can-do!” His words ran together in breathless excitement, his ungainly movements earnest in their effort.
“Is that a new skate move you’re practicing?” I finally stammered.
“No, Mom, look.” Again and again his plaid Detroit Tigers sleep pants spun as he raised and lowered his body on one leg. “I’m getting there. I’m balancing, Mom – can’t you see? I haven’t been able to do this since the accident!”
Quiet understanding flooded over me, as I watched him awkwardly rotate in front of the flickering television screen.
“How does it feel? Are you being careful? Does it hurt?” I cautiously replied. I noticed I was holding my breath as my book slipped from my grasp. It’s been five long months of holding my breath. An eternal interlude.
“Nah, I’m fine. I can feel it, but it feels good. It means I’m almost not broken anymore.”
I smiled as he whirled away, almost close enough to hug.
This piece was orginally published on Jennifer's blog, mamawolfe.