The top of the mountain was brightly illuminated by moonlight. Coyotes yelped and javelina pigs snorted in the sagebrush outside the glass doors. The dessert sky was filled with an awe inspiring display of stars , planets and reflections of ourselves. The inhabitants of the isolated countryside had long been asleep with curtains flapping from the night breezes.
I lay very still and listened. Sleep would not light upon my eyelids. Ears straining, I would sit up in bed, hoping to hear it, but instead would hear crickets, locusts and deer feeding in the moonlight.
Minutes grew to hours and restlessness bloated to anxiety. Dreadful thoughts were flitting around my head like the moths beating upon the porch lights. Just as sweat was forming under my hairline, I would hear it…the low rumble in the distance. The sound was steady and sure and grew closer and closer until headlights broke the top of the mountain and truck tires crunched on gravel.
He was home.
He would tiptoe into my room, thinking I was asleep, lean over and kiss me and say “Night, Mom.”
“Night, Evan. I’m glad you are home. I’m glad you are safe.”
“I didn’t mean to wake you, Mom.”
“Thanks for waking me. Will I see you in the morning?”
“Yeah, Mom. I will be here.”
The forest was dark with pine trees overcrowding hardwood trees. Not even the brightest moon could break through the dark of the land. It was hot and humid and fog hung like a blanket in the air. East Texas night skies are only lighted by the blinking lights of the commuter jets flying overhead. The air was heavy, still and ominous. The inhabitants of the rural outskirts of Houston had long been asleep with air conditioners turned on high.
I lay very still and listened. Sleep would not light upon my eyelids. I needed to hear the familiar sound, but instead heard only timber wolves howling and tree frogs croaking in the distance.
Minutes grew to hours and restlessness bloated to anxiety. Dreadful thoughts were hanging to my mind like the padded toes of lizards hanging onto the window screens. Just as sweat was forming under my hairline, I would hear it…the key in the door and the sound of heavy footsteps on the suspended wooden staircase.
He was home.
He would tiptoe into my room, thinking I was asleep, lean over and kiss me and say, “Night, Mom.”
“Night, Eric. I’m glad you are home. I’m glad you are safe.”
“I didn’t mean to wake you, Mom.”
“Thanks for waking me up. Will I see you in the morning?”
“Yeah, Mom. I will be here.”
The bedroom is not a quiet place. Our bedroom is filled with sounds of the television set with the power button set to eternal. Sounds of rushing wind are replaced with whistles and sudden bursts of belching from the machine which keep his lungs filled with air all night. The motor on the adjustable beds purr as we toss and turn and try to find comfort.
I lay very still and listen. Sleep will not light upon my eyelids. I strain my eyes and ears searching for the signs I need to witness. But all I hear are the television talking heads and the whir of the overhead ceiling fan.
Minutes seem an eternity. At my age, I am not patient with waiting. I reach across and lay my hand upon his chest. There it is! My hand rises and falls gently with each shallow breath.
He is home.
He takes my hand, opens his eyes, leans over and kisses me and says, “I love you.”
“Night, baby. I’m glad you are okay. I’m glad you are safe.”
“I’m sorry I keep you awake, Malisa.”
“I’m happy to be awake. Will I see you in the morning?”
He closes his eyes, reaches out until his fingers rest lightly upon my thigh.
“Yeah, I damn well better be here.”
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