Coming home

A quiet milestone happened last weekend which I haven’t had the chance to post about yet.

We went to fetch Blake back for his first night back home, since he went up to Cothill last Thurs.

I hadn’t seen him for more than a week.

I can’t quite explain why I didn’t miss him as achingly as the mums who’d asked me assumed I would’ve.

Maybe it’s because he called back home several times, sometimes twice a day. And the biting sweetness of hearing his dear unworldly voice on the phone, telling me about something small and mundane and so Blakish, was only there for me to savour because there now existed a physical gulf between us that made this bridging all the sweeter.

Maybe it’s because he sounded so comfortable and ‘well in place’. There is a new and distinct self-assurance and self-knowledge in his voice. But not enough to overshadow the innocence and unconscious, daydreamy, distracted wonder that is the unique flavour of my eldest son.

Maybe it’s because I feel his spirit is continuing to be nourished true. And his missing us continues to be able to seep out to me unfettered, unembarrassed, as it needs to.

Maybe it’s because I am relishing every freed-up moment of heart, mind and body bandwidth that I can now offer to his overlooked brother and sister, after what feels like years of “sorry sweetheart, I can’t, I have to do xxx with Blake.”

And these younger two of mine – are such exquisite beings to enjoy and be bugged by and to ‘huggle’. I can already feel the difference in the quality of relationship, after these few days.

Being open to receive the presences that oddly, quietly come, only in the space that absence creates. There is a deep and magic joy in here too, when one gets used to looking for it.


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