Motherly Love

I maneuvered the old Prius into the too-tight airport parking space, thus ending the last ride I would give to Kanoa for a long time.

I helped him unload the backseat, though he did most of the work. He was much stronger than me, and about a head taller. He was very handsome; sharp, smart eyes complemented his tan complexion, and his unruly poof of black hair had been cut short, as per my insistence. I surveyed him, wondering when he had become so grown-up.

“Well, this is it,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Guess so,” he replied, without even looking at me. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Of course, Honey.” When he said nothing, I continued. “Your father and I are very proud of you. You’ll do great out there.”

“I know. Thank you,” he said, turning his eyes on me. “Well, I’ve got a plane to catch. Bye Mom.”

We hugged briefly, then he grabbed his suitcase and turned towards the starchy white building. I blinked and swallowed, not wanting to get too emotional in front of him. He’d seen me cry enough times.

“Bye Kanoa,” I said. “I love you.”

But he was already walking away.

Kanoa was tough. Unlike me, he wasn’t one to get overworked about things. He was like his father in that way. 

I watched from the parking lot as he disappeared into the crowd of travelers. When I could no longer see him, I headed back to the car. 

I buckled in, then did a double-take in the rear-view mirror. I could have sworn I saw Kanoa’s car seat, bus yellow and bulky, strapped into the seat behind me, but when I checked again, there was nothing. I smiled to myself, remembering what a nightmare he was to strap in as a child.

I drove home along the highway. It wasn’t my favorite route, but it was the fastest. I pulled into the garage and entered my home, not quite sure what to do with myself now.

Somehow, I ended up in Kanoa’s room. In the farthest corner was his desk and wheely chair. On the opposite end, his single bed. A standing lamp was next to that, then his shelf. Next to me was his closet. It was undoubtedly Kanoa’s room, but it was like it had been stripped of personality. The desk was usually overflowing with papers, food wrappers, and empty water bottles, as well as his big computer which I had splurged on for his birthday three years ago, but it was barren now. The bed was naked, for he had taken the sheet and duvet with him. His shelf, which once housed a variety of action figures and collectible’s items, was empty. The walls were unusually void of posters. I didn’t have the heart to check his closet, I knew that it was just as depressing.

I made my way out to the back yard, where I restocked the bird feeder. It was a crudely homemade little thing, but surprisingly resilient. I was in roughly the same shape as it was over ten years ago, when Kanoa built it with his dad. I was never good with construction, but I was outside with them while they built it, watering my morning glories. I remember watching when Kanoa hit his own hand with the hammer, and started crying. I remember his father telling him to toughen up, that it was just a little bump. I, on the other hand, took Kanoa inside and iced and bandaged his thumb. Lance always told me I was irresponsible for babying Kanoa too much. I thought it was irresponsible to let an eight-year-old use a full sized hammer, but I kept my mouth shut. In a couple hours, Kanoa was just fine and ready to continue building. Like I said, he was tough.

I ate leftover lasagna for dinner (I’d made it as a treat for Kanoa last night, it was always his favorite) and sat down on the living room couch. It was an old maroon thing that never quite fit with the rest of the room. Over the years the cushions had been squashed down so they didn't sit right, and you had to squirm around a bit to find a comfortable niche. There were two indents right in the middle, where Kanoa and I would sit together. I remember sitting him down right there years ago, and carefully explaining to him that Dad and I weren’t going to be living together anymore. I remember the many nights after, when I would sit on this couch alone late at night, crying. Somehow Kanoa always knew when I was there, because he would always come down to sit with me, without saying a word. We would sit in silence for hours. He was twelve at the time.

I turned on the television, which was tuned in to some late night sitcom which I paid little attention to. Somehow, without Kanoa, the house felt much bigger. I couldn’t explain why; I’d gone several nights without him at home before. Since entering high school, he had spent almost every weekend at his father’s house. Even on weeknights, when he lived here, I rarely saw him. He often would spend the night at a friends house, or at a party, and when he did come home, he spent all his time in his room. The late nights on the couch ceased, and I would only see him at dinner, if at all. On the nights he didn’t come home, I tried to make sure he called me so I knew he was okay. He did at first, but as he became more independent, he resisted that rule. He was always stubborn that way.

That stubbornness got worse as Kanoa grew. In the last few years, he had become much like his father. Lance was always very stubborn, always a rule breaker. He was tough, and he taught Kanoa to be tough. Lance would never express how he felt. I don’t think he ever told me he loved me, despite all the times I said it to him. But people express love in different ways, and it never bothered me that he refused to say it, because I thought he loved me anyway. Now I’m not so sure. 

Kanoa became very influenced by Lance. I tried not to let it bother me, since Lance was his father, but it did, and Kanoa knew it did. Again, it was here on the couch that he confronted me about it. He asked me if I reminded him of Lance. I said yes. He asked me if it was a bad thing. I said yes.

That was the last time we shared the couch together.

I’m not sure how long I sat there, half watching the television. But a sharp ringing from the table beside me that I immediately recognized as the telephone drove me out of my trance. Who would possibly call at this hour? I reached for it, and seeing a familiar name on the screen, immediately picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hi Mom,” Kanoa said. “I didn’t think you’d pick up. It’s late.”

“You know I’m always up late,” I told him. “What’s up?”

“I got to my dorm,” Kanoa replied. “I haven’t met my roommate yet, but it’s a pretty nice place.”

“That’s good,” I said. “How was the flight?”

“Good,” He said. “Are you on the couch right now?”

I laughed. “How do you always know?”

“I just do, Mom,” he said. There was a pause, then, “Uh, hey.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

I smiled. “I love you too.”