Home coming

“I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.”

So goes the famous line from T.S. Eliot’s poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”

Some critics say it reflects how we spend much of our lives on ordinary tasks with little meaning.

That’s not why I remember it.

It’s a line I repeat often when thinking about my two adult children, and especially Jacob.

He lives 1,000 miles away.  I sometimes feel that I’m measuring out my life in the times we are together.

It wasn’t always that way.  Years ago, I was grateful for the geographic distance between my son and me.

That began on a gray December evening when he boarded a plane for South Florida, both of us uncertain who would meet him on the receiving end.  The destination was a recovery house and continued treatment.

I wondered, would he have clean sheets that night?  Would someone ensure he ate dinner?  Had he packed a toothbrush?  Clean underwear?

Inane, ridiculous thoughts.  My son was facing a potentially life-threatening condition – and I was worried about clean sheets and toothpaste.

Parents who are living through a child’s addiction often ask, did sending him away help?   Was geographic separation the right thing to do?   What if you couldn’t be there to help him?

But I had been there.  For years.  It was time for him to get himself well – because I couldn’t.

Today, nearly 13 years into his recovery – and mine – I am grateful for the life he has found in Florida.  And yet, when holidays approach, addiction or not, what parent does not feel that deep longing for their child?  Just to share their space and savor their presence, even for a day.

No, my life is not measured in coffee spoons –  but rather, in the unfathomable joy of hearing these simple words…

“Mom, I’m coming home.”