IS IT SAFE TO LOOK AT THE MOON?

The Way Home

I heard her today, again. She was in her room. Praying. Or just whispering, I supposed so I won't hear her.

"Please, Lord, let him come home to me; very soon before I die."

It was a plea, from a mother who had years of waiting, waiting for a son to return. She never wavered in her belief, that the son who said goodbye many years before to seek his fortune in the world, her son was ever going to come home. Her heart said he was alive - somewhere out there - and that he was ready to come home.

I tiptoed away from Mom's bedroom door. My heart was heavy because I had no more words of comfort for her. I'd exhausted every word in the dictionary to ease her pain. I'd helped her make contact with people who were expert in finding the lost. I'd read every newspaper, journal, text that was available, to support her in finding my brother.

All through my high school years, my college years, the years I spent developing my career in journalism - all through the past years I gave to Mom, years I should have enjoyed but years I devoted to comfort her and support her to find her son. I didn't consider them "lost years" because I loved her. I never complained; never said a word to discourage her. I prayed for her during all these past years - now that her life is fading away from her.

She'd lay in bed, staring and seeing only the shadowy image of her son. She'd forgotten how he looked, how old he was when he left. She'd go through all his letters, notes, and postcards - and loving birthday cards - and she'd cry her heart out. She always prayed. She never lost hope. She'd see the morning light with a smile and a bright hope - one day her son would knock on the door, and he'd give her a surprise. And there was going to be a big celebration, a thanksgiving party for the return of her son.

I heard her as she came out of her bedroom. The wrinkles on her face were like patterns of crossed lines, that hid the beauty that was Mom's in her young years. Her hair had thinned into fine lines of greys. Her steps were slow, like staggered stages of steps climbing a mountain. But her eyes were clear, glassy at times when she teared but her eyes were alert, bright, and expectant. There was hope in her eyes, a never-ending expectation that tomorrow is another day to pray for the return of a son.