This is Motherhood
I remember it was warm that day.
I remember I was hungry. We’d left in a hurry. The drive took over an hour—even longer to find parking in a nearby garage.
We made it to the bridge with just a few minutes to spare.
“Mom, are you sure?” My 16-year old Charlie shifted next to me. “He doesn’t have a phone.”
Yes, I said. He’ll be fine, I told him. We’d watch the boats pass underneath the bridge, then follow him back to the car. It would be a few minutes at most.
I looked over my shoulder and saw my youngest son walk away, a silhouette beneath the dazzling autumn sky. I looked down at the water. As expected, the boats glided beneath us—so many silent torpedoes cutting through the cool river.
I caught a glimpse of my daughter’s curly hair under her visor.
Charlie and I turned. We walked the length of the bridge and up the path leading to the parking garage. We walked with purpose. Not hurried, but not slow. We reached the car.
He wasn’t there.
Henry. Hen-Ben. Hendrixon. His nicknames floated through my consciousness like so many butterflies.
He wasn’t there.
It is shocking how quickly impatience turns to panic. You wouldn’t think the human heart could switch gears so fast.
At the exact same time, the human brain can cover a lot of ground. Perhaps even more than a 13-year old afoot in a city.
Images fought for space in my mind.
Chubby infant, mischievous toddler, gangly 8th grader.
My son.
Stuffing peas up his nose during dinner.
Piecing Legos together at the table.
Blinking back tears as he helped carry his grandmother’s casket into the church.
He could be anywhere.
Unless you’ve been tasked with locating a lost puppy or a misplaced child, it’s hard to comprehend the concept of anywhere.
Anywhere is every coffee shop, every vehicle, every park, every highway. It is massive. It is immense. The world expands.
I headed back to the bridge while Charlie stayed behind, checking the levels of the garage. As reluctant as I was to leave another child, I knew it was practical. He had a phone. We could stay in contact.
I scanned a construction site and called his name.
Henry.
Panic clutched my throat. My heart vibrated.
Why did I agree to let him go?
He complained he was thirsty.
He wanted his water bottle.
He was unhappy in the way 13-year old’s are often unhappy.
I was irritated in the way mothers of 13-year old’s are often irritated.
I told him to go.
I told him to go and then I couldn’t find him.
Don’t mind me as I stretch my fingers to the hot flame of regret.
It’s been weeks now. Some mornings I wake at 4:00 am, heart pounding, mind racing.
I revisit the water, the bridge, the sun.
I leave space for my ineptitude, my mistake, my utter lapse in judgment.
As I heal ever so slightly, I remember, the best choices in life are made when we’re resourced: rested, fed, connected.
Now, a new tenderness for my youngest blossoms within me. At night on the couch, I notice glints of red in his otherwise dark hair.
I toast him late-night bagels. I bend my head close and hear his gentle laugh.
Just like that, panic becomes patience. This is the very gift bestowed upon me.
Tender mercies, I believe these are called. A new beginning.
This is motherhood.
Again and again, we are reborn.
I long for rules. I wish for black and white. In the end I’m left with handfuls of color.
Why did I let him go?
Slowly, I make friends with the monster under my bed. Together we sit in the early light, and I whisper, he’s here, this boy is here, he is down the hall under a Star Wars blanket and he is a-okay.
Mostly, I whisper a collection of words that remind me all is not gone. All is not lost.
On my knees beneath a starling sky, a second chance.
“Mom! I found him. I found Henry.”

November 3, 2022 @ 1:29 am
And I can feel your hot tears or relief/joy/thanks/ Praise to God running down your face Carrie.
November 4, 2022 @ 12:52 am
Carrie, I can’t believe no one else has responded to the way you have opened your soul here. You are a blessing to so many!