Sunday, April 19, 1998

Using a dull knife to cut apron strings

By Sharon Randall

Mama said there'd be days like this.

Actually, Mama said a lot of things, but she was right about this.

"You'll have children one day," she told me years ago as I tried to pry her hands off my ankles so I could catch a flight to California, "and they'll grow up and move off to some godforsaken place where you can't get a hold of them when you need to."

"I'll call you," I said, free at last and running like a scalded dog for the gate.

"Mark my words," she shouted, "someday you will know how this feels!"

What comes around ...

I did not mark her words. I didn't even remember them until I had children. Then my eldest grew up and moved off to godforsaken Los Angeles, and now I can't get a hold of him when I need to.

We communicate by machines. I leave questions on his voice mail or punch my number into his pager, and he calls back when I am out and leaves the answers on my recorder.

Even if we connect and talk for hours by phone, it's not what my mother meant. A phone can do surprising things if you push the right buttons, but it won't let you look into someone's eyes, or smell his hair, or feel his hug. It won't let you get "a hold" of him. Least of all, when you need to the most.

Disappearing act

Once, when my oldest was 6, I lost him. We were Christmas shopping in the mall. He was The Big Brother, too big to hold my hand. His sister, age 4, The Helper, was popping wheelies with the stroller from which my toddler, The Fugitive, was trying his best to escape. I knelt to tie down the toddler and when I got up, his big brother was gone.

It took two hours, four security guards, a team of Santa's elves and countless years off my life to find him at the water fountain where he'd gone to get a drink.

"I knew you'd find me," he said. That was 20 years ago; to this day, when we go out, I make him hold my hand.

I can't describe that feeling, the awful realization that I could lose someone I couldn't imagine living without. I'll never understand how people survive such a loss; I only know that we do.

Knowing the feeling

I had a taste of that feeling this morning when I took my oldest to the airport. He'd flown up from L.A. for Easter weekend. I'd bribed him home with a promise to put extra chocolate in his Easter basket. Also, I paid for his airfare. Otherwise, the boy was going to drive 10 hours roundtrip and be here barely long enough to do his laundry.

This way we had time to celebrate the holiday, watch three movies, eat four real meals, not to mention snacks, and finish five major loads of laundry. I drove him to the airport at 6 a.m. It was dark, cold and raining hard.

No, I did not hang on his ankles. I simply looked in his eyes for a moment, maybe two, then pressed my face into his chest and felt the crush of his hug. When he hugs you, you know you've been hugged.

Then I watched him board a tiny plane that bumped along the runway, wings trembling like a dying bird, until it disappeared in an El Nino sky.

His parting words were "I'll call you."

He'd better, I told him.

He'll have children someday.

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Sharon Randall is a winner of the American Association of Sunday and Feature Editors and the Best of the West commentary awards.

Scripps Howard News Service