It was late by most people's standards, unless you were a night owl. It had been a fun but long evening of team effort as we prepared the venue for tonight's affair.
He came into my bedroom and leaned against my dresser. We talked. There was a glimpse of similarity to this scene, but it was suspended in that moment of conversation. But after he left, it all came to the top like cream that rises on those milk bottles of my childhood. This was the last time that he would do this and my mind was flooded with the countless times of years past that this was a normal occurrence. Coming into my bedroom late at night , to talk, mother and son.
Those apron strings that have been stretching taut these past years snapped last night. But they snapped with gladsome tunes of, "Thank you for all you have done," and a delightful conversation, mother and son.
be my guest
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