Of Tender Sons

I watch my husband answer a phone call awakened out of needed sleep.  In the tender way he answers, I know it's his mother.  She has nothing vital that needed saying, just a friendly ear to listen.  Her elderly excitement is all about what she accomplished that morning.  He lays back on the pillow adding small affirmations along the way as she chatters in his ear.

He didn't have to listen.  He could've told her he'd been sleeping and would talk later, or quickly rushed off the phone; but he didn't.  That's the kind of son he is.

I watch my son walk to me first thing in the morning.  He sits on the edge of the recliner and wraps his arms around me mumbling a good morning.  He knows I love this greeting. I hold him tight for an extra long time.  He doesn't recoil, he allows me my added minutes.

He didn't have to hug me.  He could've shouted good morning from his room or simply met me at the breakfast table, but he didn't.  That's the kind of son he is.


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