A HALLMARK MOMENT

(My son, Jameson & I at El Barrio Art Fest 2005)

THE OTHER NIGHT, my son came home and as usual, we didn’t greet each other. He comes home tired from work; I’m usually engrossed in writing or applying for jobs online. Later, after he washes up and goes into his room & changes, he comes up and leans up against me, not really hugging me, though sometimes he does. Sometimes he squeezes me too hard, trying to get a response out of me. Sometimes I push him away playfully or punch him. Other times I squeeze back and we engage in a battle of sorts to see who can squeeze the hardest. It’s our way of saying, “I love you,” without saying the words. That night, as he leaned up against me, he bent and smelled my hair. I ignored him at first, expecting him to say that my hair stank, but then he took a deeper whiff.

“WHAT?” I ASKED irritably.

“YOUR HAIR REMINDS me of something. You know how sometimes a smell brings back a memory in your life?”

“YEAH!” I SAID, half-sarcastically (because he tends to be sarcastic ninety-nine percent of the time), half-surprisingly (because being insightful is so out of character for him). But I knew exactly what he was talking about. Sometimes when I smell coffee, it reminds me of mornings during my childhood when my mother used to make sweet leche con café (milk with coffee instead of the other way around, with lots of sugar).

THEN MY SON walked out of the room without explaining what the smell of my hair reminded him of, and I didn’t ask. He probably forgot about this little moment the minute he went back into his room, but I will always remember it. Somewhere down the line, it will make its way into my writing.