I watch him as he slices red bell peppers, mushrooms that smell like the earth, and bright, green zucchini. He serves me a cup of coffee, lectures me about the way I drink it, with real sugar and cream. He smiles though, as he lectures.
His wife hasn't made it home from work yet, and he cooks dinner as he does most days. He's easily distracted so I can see it's a little difficult for him to talk with me while he's slicing and preparing, but he never stops listening. I can tell. I know these things. He glances up from his work, wiping his forehead occasionally, and says "Yes?" He's interested in what I have to say.
I can remember a day when he wasn't interested in anyone other than himself. The days when he would look at me, flash that smile, and take money from my purse after I had gone to bed. He had a habit. He was different. He wasn't my son.
And I waited.
And I cried for him, often.
And now he is 24, and whole. He prays on his own now.
He prays with his children.
When he smiles, I see his father. And when he laughs, the sun shines. And when he's in his kitchen, slicing summer vegetables for his family, I am bursting.
I am thankful.
I am amazed.
I am whole.
This is my imperfect prose.