John stood in front of his pickup truck, all his earthly belongings tied up in the truck bed under an old tarp. Before him stood his family and friends––the majority of the community––all of whom had come to say goodbye and to wish him luck in his new life.
"I can’t believe you’re
going," said his mother, grabbing hold of him, her press-on nails digging
into his back. Tears ran down her cheeks, etching rivers through her pancake
makeup. Standing there before him John realized what a tiny woman she was and
he was surprised he had never noticed. She always seemed so big, strong and
capable, but as he hugged her goodbye he realized she wasn’t Superwoman after
all.
"It’s not forever, Mom," he
said, standing back to look at her. He could see the roots of her hair, grey
with the beginnings of grow-out. She spent two Fridays a month at the Samson
Beauty Parlor to maintain her natural color, but time was winning the war on
her head and it would have horrified her to know.
"I got you a present," his
mom whispered in his ear. She presented him with a package wrapped in pink and
purple paper, probably left over from his niece’s birthday party last week. His
mom, a proud Scotch-Irish woman, wasted nothing. No wrapping paper, bow, or
even tape was discarded. Each was placed in an old shoe box ready to serve
again at a moment’s notice. His family had been recycling long before it was
fashionable.
"Open it now," his auntie
called out from somewhere in the crowd, and his brothers elbowed each other
good-naturedly. They were obviously privy to the contents of the package. John
smiled and nodded, turning his head away from the sun.
"Ah, thanks, Mom. I can never
have too many pairs of underwear." John waved the stack of white
Fruit-of-the-Looms in the air, bringing laughter from younger members of the
crowd and nods of approval from the elders. His mother squeezed his arm.
"That’s so in case you get in a
car wreck you will always have clean underpants. Read them," she
instructed, hiding her mouth behind her hand so that John wouldn’t notice her
bottom lip tremble. John flipped the pair on top. On the back were the words John Smith delicately embroidered in
cursive scrawl. "Me-ma did those for you last week," said his mother,
nodding to his grandmother in the front row. "Even though she has the
arthritis."
John walked towards his grandmother
and gave her a long hug goodbye. She broke free and saluted him, assuming he
was off to war because that was the only reason anyone ever left Samson.
Generations of Samson men had died for the Red, White, and Blue and his
grandmother lovingly sacrificed every one of them because that was the cost of
freedom. John saluted her back and then he went to each family member and
friend, shaking the hands of the men and hugging the women.
"Remember," said his
grandfather. "Buy American, vote Democrat, and don’t wear colored bandanas
or people will think you’re in a gang."
John nodded and grasped his
grandfather’s hand firmly, feeling the heavy veins in the man’s thin arm.
"I won’t forget."
John made it through the crowd, doing
his best not to cry. Midwest men did not cry. When he had finished his goodbyes
he made his way to his truck and watched as his mother turned away. She had
said she couldn’t watch him leave. He waved once more and then drove, refusing
to look back in case he changed his mind. It wasn’t until three hours later at
a rest stop that he saw the card on the passenger seat.
Dear John,
You are a good boy. Losing you is like losing my arm. But if you really
love something (or someone) set them free. And so I am. Follow your heart. I
hope you find your adventure.
Mom.
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