His voice surprises me every Sunday evening.
Sundays are for phone calls home. Time to talk about midterms and dorm food; to tease his sister a bit and catch us up on his life away from home.
It’s the only time each week I hear his voice now. It’s strong and deep.
The voice of a young man.
That very same voice that I remember hearing incessantly, ever since he found the usefulness of language and started to babble.
He told vivid stories, long and detailed…about dinosaurs or Bionicle characters or knights in shining armor. And in that long part of the afternoon, when dinner is looming too far away and naps are finished, he would tell his tales.
On car rides to grandparent’s houses, or just a trip to the neighborhood store. The stories, they flowed.
Once his sister was born, he had a new audience. She listened and watched and smiled.
And he went on and on.
I know I tuned out quite a bit; continued to shake my head and nod, throwing in a few “uh-huhs” for good mom points.
He was creating worlds that made him happy, that made even the worst day at school seem easy to handle.
I just couldn’t imagine a time when the stories would end.
Or turn into grown up stories.
Of paying bills and managing laundry; scheduling classes and planning for his degree.
These once-a-week stories from a young man’s voice have nothing to do with pirates or knights; and yet they are magical.
He’s building his own world, one independent step at a time. Chasing a dream, following a passion, developing a future for himself. Something to call his own.
And crafting his tale one Sunday night phone call at a time.
And just maybe, those stories he told for hours on end helped him get where he is today.
I’m glad I listened.
At least half the time.