A Lunch With My Son

I was having lunch with my teenage son in a small diner in a town near home. The place had that old-fashioned feel—red vinyl booths, checkered floors, and a jukebox in the corner playing classics. The air was filled with the scent of sizzling burgers and fresh fries, making my mouth water before the plates even hit the table.

We chatted merrily as we ate, the conversation bouncing from his classes to his friends’ antics and the latest video game he was obsessed with. I laughed as he animatedly recounted how his buddy almost backed into a pole during driver’s ed, and I watched his eyes light up as he talked about his plans once he got his license. My heart squeezed a little, realizing how close he was to that milestone, to driving away toward his own adventures.

The reason we were in town, besides the meal, was that my son was on a quest. During driver’s ed that summer, his group had made a pit stop in this small town, and while on a break, he and his friends explored the local shops. They stumbled upon a quirky store called “Antiqueology,” a place overflowing with nostalgia. They’d been drawn in by the shelves of Blackjack gum, horehound candy, trick cards, Pixy Stix, and Bit-O-Honey. But what really caught his eye was the selection of bottled sodas.

He was hunting for one in particular—“Witches’ Brew,” a butterscotch soda that supposedly tasted like Butterbeer from the Harry Potter stories. His friends had raved about it, claiming it was magical, and he was determined to get his hands on a bottle. I was secretly delighted by his quest, reminded of his childhood days when magic and adventure were around every corner.

As we finished our meal, wiping ketchup from our fingers and downing the last of our drinks, I suggested we stroll around town a bit before heading to the shop. I wanted to hold on to this moment just a little longer. Now that he was so close to getting his license, these shared outings would soon be replaced by him taking off on his own. I could already picture him driving off with his friends, windows down, music blaring, and me waving from the porch.

We stepped out of the diner into the warm afternoon sun, the sidewalk shimmering with heat. The town was quaint, with tiny storefronts offering everything from children’s clothes to auto parts, donuts, and insurance services. My vision had been getting worse lately, a frustrating blur that seemed to creep in more each day, so I used that as an excuse to hold his hand as we walked. He didn’t protest, and I silently cherished the warmth of his palm against mine.

Halfway down the block, he stopped abruptly, his eyes widening. “I forgot to lock the car doors,” he said, already turning to dash back. “Wait here, I’ll be right back!”

I watched him sprint down the street, his lanky limbs moving with the energy of youth. Smiling to myself, I continued down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, taking in the sights. The window displays were colorful and whimsical, some featuring antique trinkets while others showcased local handmade goods.

I paused in front of one shop whose window was filled with brightly colored objects of various sizes and shapes. They gleamed under the afternoon sun, adorned with twisting golden limbs and sparkling jewels of every color imaginable. I squinted, leaning in closer. They looked so intricate, so carefully crafted. My first thought was that they were trophies—strange, abstract ones, but trophies nonetheless. The shapes were so artistic, so ornate. Some had long necks that curved gracefully, others had wide, rounded bases with glittering designs.

I found myself admiring them, marveling at the craftsmanship. I wondered what competitions they were awarded for. Art? Music? Maybe they were custom-made, the kind given out at quirky local events. My imagination ran wild as I stood there, nose almost pressed to the glass, trying to decipher the purpose of these peculiar but beautiful creations.

“Mom?”

I jumped, turning to see my son standing beside me, his brow furrowed in concern. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, sure!” I said with a bright smile. “Look at these!” I pointed at the window, excitement in my voice. “Aren’t they beautiful? I’ve never seen trophies like these before. I wonder what they’re for?”

My son’s expression changed, his lips twitching as he fought to hold back a smile. His eyes flicked from me to the display, then back again. He opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly struggling to find the right words. Finally, he took my hand, his fingers curling around mine in a reassuring grip.

“Mom,” he said gently, his eyes sparkling with amusement, “they’re not trophies.”

I blinked, confused. “They’re not?”

He shook his head, his shoulders trembling with barely contained laughter. “They’re bongs.”

My mouth fell open as the realization sank in, heat flooding my cheeks. I took another look at the window display, the curved necks, the ornate designs, the jewel-like embellishments. What I had thought were trophies were, in fact, glass smoking devices, arranged artfully but unmistakably.

“Oh my gosh,” I whispered, covering my mouth as laughter bubbled up from my chest. “I... I thought they were trophies!”

My son’s laughter rang out, full and genuine, his face alight with joy. “I know, Mom. I know.”

He wrapped his arm around my shoulders, steering me away from the window as I shook my head, mortified but unable to stop laughing. I leaned into him as we walked, my vision blurry with tears of laughter, and I realized that even as he grew up and set out on his own adventures, we’d always have moments like this. Moments where we could laugh together, where he’d be there to guide me when I stumbled, just as I’d guided him.

We walked down the sidewalk, still chuckling, our laughter echoing off the storefronts as the sun dipped lower in the sky.