I have a few teenage boys in my life now.
They peer at life sideways, through long bangs. They play instruments and sports — guitar, drums, hockey, soccer. They swim; they go to school. They excel.
They probably drive their parents nuts, in the ways of teenage boys. I’m sure they can be frustratingly quiet or enragingly mouthy, and I’m sure their parents don’t know which one they are going to get at the dinner table, if they even sit at the dinner table anymore, because they are busy, busy boys.
One nephew is the spitting image of my brother, although I don’t remember my brother being so lanky. One nephew has moods as changeable as the Pittsburgh skies, but his laughter is worth waiting for. One boy is such a special kid, son of one of my special friends in Erie, and I don’t get to see them enough. Our godson is a serious boy who invites my husband over for breakfast burritos.
I will have a teenage son in the house in about eight years.
For now, I do not have a teenage boy.
At Michael’s soccer game on Saturday — his final one of the season, the one where he got his participation medal, of which he was ridiculously proud — there were two little boys named Gabriel. A white butterfly fluttered across the field.
I have a good life full of love and blessings.
And I have a missing piece, an empty cradle. And having the former doesn’t erase having the latter.
Copyright: vectorinka / 123RF Stock Photo