He misses those evenings
with the lights turned down low,
returning home late
from a part-time job,
his mother at the kitchen table,
tight lipped, holding her breath
until he entered,
her thin fingers interlocked,
thumbs rhythmically twirling,
finally asking questions
that provoked his perspective
as she made him a sandwich.
The rest of the family slept
as he chatted, she listened,
feigning a degree of comprehension
to give him a sense of security
until the grandfather’s clock
struck midnight,
making them realize
the day’s impending fatigue
after the twelve count ended.
She understood he was not typical,
choosing music over movies,
philosophy over financial,
creativity over commerce,
commitment over coercion,
and like few others,
he will not find comfort
within the current standards.
But until she entered
the silent world of her own mind,
she had him convinced
he was never alone.
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