Prompt Writing. Fall Retreat. Oct. 19, 2013
I have often thought about what Wes and Andy would say to me if they were able. Would they say, “Thanks Mom for your chicken pie”? That was their favorite homemade entrée. I’ve only made chicken pie once since they died. It was for our friend, Grady. I wanted to impress him, and I know he loved chicken. He owned three KFCs! After that time I decided they were too much trouble.
I know they loved my sense of humor. Andy inherited that from me. I know one thing they didn’t love: my dislike of audibles at the dinner table. Pass gas, burp, belch–you were washing the dishes, buddy. But, as they grew older, cleaning up after supper was one of their chores, regardless of how many times Andy would excuse himself in a mad rush to the powder room just around the corner in the hall.
It’s difficult to remember what they may have loved about me–they were teenage boys. There’s just not a whole lot that any teenager seemingly cares about outside of their own world. Perhaps they liked that I left their stuff alone, except when their rooms became covered in enough dust and trash that I could take it no longer.
I would like to think they loved the fact that I would do anything to help them deal with life. Wes had missed a day of school on March 7. I simply couldn’t make him get up and go to school. And he wouldn’t tell me why. He finally broke down late that morning and tearfully compared himself to his extroverted younger brother, saying, “Why can’t I be more like Andy?” He remarked that he didn’t know why he worked so hard and always gave his school work his all. He said, “It just doesn’t seem to matter, Mom.” It broke my heart. I reassured him as best as I could. What it all boiled down to, when he finally opened up, was a date for the prom. A week or so later, his best friend Bryan came to the front door and, with a huge smile, told me that he had found a prom date for Wes. I hope that Wes would have loved how happy I was for him. He died one week and one day before the prom.
Someday, when I see them again, I believe all we will talk about is love. Maybe it doesn’t matter what they loved about me. I just love that I was their mother. I always will. I’m pretty sure they loved me, just for being their mother…somehow I think they still do.