Wishing
The Last Year
“This is your last year.”
He’s saying it with a smile as he lets himself surrender, folding more deeply into my arms.
I’m with Jeb at the bus stop in early morning with only one other carload of drop-offs behind us.
“Last year?”
I act as though I don’t understand but I have a good sense of where he’s heading.
“Yep, when I’m 11, no more of this.”
He nestles in for a final soak-in of mother love, then pulls away like a mischievous elf. “This is your last year…”
“Oh, really?!” I grab him back and pull him towards me as he giggles and squirms. “Last year, hah! We’re going to be hugging for the rest of our lives!”
“Na-uh! Last year, mom.” He moves away and opens the car door, putting one foot outside but remaining in his seat, smirking.
“Jeb, when all of your friends think they’re too cool to hug their moms, you’re going to be the coolest one because you’ll still be doing it and not caring what anyone else thinks.” (Might as well plant the seed).
“Ehhh…I’ll start hugging you again in my twenties.”
Where is he getting this?
The kids in the car behind us have unloaded and one of the boys is anxiously watching for Jeb’s exit from our vehicle. This time I get a rapid, cursory movement somewhat resembling an affectionate gesture, followed with an upbeat “Bye!”
And then he’s gone and I’m driving away.
Last year. Pfft.
Well, this may be the last year for some things. At day’s end, just before dinner, Jeb comes into the house spitting blood into the bathroom sink like a triumphant boxer.
“I was watching the sunset and just decided, now I’m going to do it. And I pulled as hard as I could and it came out.”
Jeb’s tooth rolls clean and white in his open palm as he spits again like a tough guy into the sink. “It hurt a little bit but not too much.”
At bedtime he shows me exactly where he’s stashed the envelope housing his tooth. “It’s just right here under this pillow, mom.”
“Ok, well, I’ll be sure to tell the tooth fairy,” and we give each other the secret smile that is so old now, we both know it is outgrown.
I think this may be the last year of losing teeth. It is also probably the last year that Jeb and I will wear the same size shoe.
But the last year of hugs?
No way…
Under the Hood
A mechanic and two of his assistants arrive at the front door of my dream, somewhere between the snooze button and waking.
In the end, there was no issue with car except for some melting ice cream sandwiches in the back seat.
But there was that Black Hills gold ring I was gifted back in high school. The Bohemian pulled it from the jewelry box and showed the mechanic the broken, inlaid leaf.
The mechanic says we can see the artist that made the ring if we look closely at the underside. I use my camera at the macro setting and zoom to reveal the smallest sketching in the gold. A hidden, miniature world is revealed, detailing a palm tree, a man, and the name Bruce Piston.
We are grateful to the mechanic and friends for their assistance and pay them something for their time, happy it’s not a hefty repair bill. We walk them to the door and say goodbye.
I wake, turn off the snooze setting, and rise.
I think we should all know what drives us, but I’ll admit that I have to refresh my memory on exactly what a piston does beneath the hood.
If I understand correctly, it’s a shaft that exerts force inside a cylinder, which ultimately creates a combustion that powers the vehicle. Piston rings (hmmm…) are seals that keep the shaft and cylinder lubricated in their motion.
Melting ice cream sandwiches, a Black Hills gold ring, false alarm on a car repair, and the miniature world of a dreamtime artist named Bruce. These are the threads, loose and scattered, that have yet to be woven to any neat conclusion or meaning.
That can be the welcome relief of dreams. And I love it that way.
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