“I’m going to come down the last weekend of August, if that’s okay?”
That was my brother’s son, a young man busy understanding life. I’ve been in and out of his months and days since he was born. Having lived close enough for spontaneous visits only about 6 months of his two decades, I haven’t seen as much of him as family should.
He walked up the drive, tall and lithe, bespectacled, and clean shaven, his back straight and a light dusting of very faint freckles across his nose. Genetics. He looked like my side, a son and brother of mine, and then parts of him reminded me of his Mom’s side. His hands for instance.
He hugged me. Hard. I thought of the little, hefty 2 year old that a very long time ago had waddled up that very same drive but in strides much smaller and less steady.
He traveled light, only a small backpack, one that looked like it might have come off of the shoulders of my oldest son 15 years ago. Not too many others would have chosen this particular pack. Maybe only those two.
Sometimes genetics isn’t bound in physical expression of bone and skin.
“This is peaceful,” he said, as we clustered, him, me and his Grandmother, on the tiny back porch in cushiony chairs,