I’m writing into the sunrise on my deck with one eye scrunched shut to block that joyous morning light. I have another half-hour of horizontal rays before the sun rises enough that the porch covering hampers the shine. Mid-June in New England, I’m sitting outside on a cool morning. No wind and no humidity. Luscious.
Will came home from college in early May, so there are four Malcolms once again using the house as their base. I try to keep farm hours: going to bed by ten and rising with the sun. Bill maintains golfing hours: rising early if there is a tee time scheduled and arriving home after sunset—after the last ball drops. Will is coaching gymnastics at his old gym this summer while going to physical therapy to help with a back injury brought on by flips and twists over the last twelve years or so. Liam turned sixteen in January, and the evenings of his first couple of weeks of summer have been filled with driver’s ed via Zoom.
Formations of the these summer days take on strange shapes. At 7:30 one morning, I found Liam, dressed in running clothes, fast asleep on the sofa with an empty hot cocoa mug resting near his hand. He had been talking about running pre-dawn to avoid traffic and heat, but talk is talk. When Liam woke up post-1 p.m., he confirmed that he had indeed gone out to run before the sun came up. This morning I heard footsteps at 4:30 a.m., and when I came into the living room at 6:30 a.m., again he was asleep on the couch. In running clothes. He’s going to a running camp in the Berkshires in mid-August; I’m sure he’ll see early running days there as well.
Will has an anchor set at our house, but like a sailboat needing plenty of area to swing with the swell of waves, he doesn’t hover over anchorage. He’s eighteen and going into his sophomore year at Northeastern—and now living at home. I only want a general idea of his roundabouts; I don’t need details. Yesterday morning his car wasn’t home when I woke up. Will makes occasional early journeys to Wingaersheek Beach to watch the sunrise, but he normally gives me a heads up. From my bedroom I texted, “Wondering where you are this morning?” As I heard the back door open, he texted back, “IHop. Buddy’s flight was cancelled. Drove him back to airport at 5 a.m.” Not knowing the context of his overall evening-come-morning, I didn’t understand how these details pieced together, but the back door had opened and closed. I would learn more when he arose post-3 p.m. in time to eat then go coach.
Having 16-and 18-year-olds with non-existent mornings makes that innate being-at-the-ready job called parenting feel like more of a part-time gig. When Will and Liam happen to roost at the same time in the kitchen for 9 p.m. dinner, they now talk and laugh with one another as they eat. When this happens, I mosey myself out of the room and check on the laundry, perhaps empty the lint trap. I love each of them to their very core, but seeing and hearing them together like this, in their more-adult-than-child bodies, has sprung a new kind of love that I’m having a hard time trying to label. And a harder time not dropping tears in appreciation. I just want it to remain so, long after I’m gone.