My son Adam only ever wrote to me while he was on his mission in California. He was told by his mission president to write his parents once a week. I'm grateful for that much, anyway. Adam has never been forthcoming with much information about his life and his feelings -- not to me, anyway. He bought a scrumptious house out in American Fork three years ago, just ten miles from me, and I have been invited over a total of seven times. But why complain? When I do visit him at his place, or he comes over to my place, we don't seem to communicate except in the barest of one syllable words. He makes Calvin Coolidge look like the Barber of Baghdad. And whenever I try to engage him in conversation I wind up putting both feet, right and left, in my mouth. I hope we're able to develop telepathy in the next life, otherwise it's going to be very tough sledding between the two of us.
We did have one break through moment about two years ago, however, when he came over to confess something to me as part of a 12 step recovery program he is in. It was very emotional, and we hugged. But neither one of us has ever mentioned it again.
I get the feeling that if he ever reads the above paragraph it's going to embarrass the hell out of him, and he may just stop communicating with me altogether.
I'm told by some of my kids that Ed is the exact same way, but I wouldn't know. He won't have anything to do with me. Period.
Virginia is writing poetry and putting together a chapbook of her work. I vaguely remember her sending it to me -- I wonder if I have it anywhere still?
As I have often said, memory is a pleasant servant but a terrible master. So I try not to take these postcards from my children too seriously -- they are real, but what they represent is long gone, or maybe buried in the basement. There are days when my memory wants to stage 'Arsenic and Old Lace.' And I don't think I'll ever let it.
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