It's quiet now. Finally. Five o'clock in the morning and I'm on my third cup of coffee. Tiptoeing, as quietly as one can dragging a concrete block on the other foot, through the house. I'm letting "them" sleep. The manchild and his friend.
In my little corner of the world, piled up under heavy quilts and wrapped in cat tails, puppy breaths, and interupted dreams, I listened as they lived. Cell phones humming, purring, rapping. Channels flicking. A cough every now and then. Heavy feet down the hall. Engines louder then softer again somewhere outside.
My son is home again.
And this house, these walls, this gate that swings open and never shuts behind you, is The Motel Six for wayward boys once again.
In the wee, wee hours, he wakes me up. Quietly, whispering love letters into my ear. "Ma, Ma.....is it o.k. if A.J. camps out here? He got thrown out of his house again....."
"mmmmmmmmm" "yes, son" I whisper to nothing.
He's already turned and taken 6 foot tall steps back down the hall.