Timeless Thoughts

A little introduction before I start.  They are grown now, on their own now.  But there was a time not so long ago when these pieces were written for them.  As parents, friends, grandparents, and as grown "kids" I hope you can relate as well. 

TO MY THIRTEEN YEAR OLD   by b. Malin

I've still got my "Lucky Rock" that you gave to me two summers ago. You were such a little boy then, looking up at me with your big brown eyes and explaining very patiently to me, that if I always carried this "special rock" with me everywhere that I went, I'd never get into trouble.

I took the small white stone from your hand and put it into my red leather chance purse that was attached to my key ring.  It's been there ever since.

The other day you came running into the house and yelled to me, did I have any change?  For you were going to cut a neighbors lawn, and needed gas for your lawn mower.  I yelled back to you to look in my red leather change purse, for I was busy with my writing.

The house remained silent except for my "pecking" at my word processor.  I looked up and found you standing quietly beside me holding my red leather change purse in one hand, and the small white stone in the other.

We were both silent for a moment.  I stared at my "second born,"  my youngest, my thirteen year old, with the long endless legs that seemed to go beyond his cut-off jeans.  A shiver ran through me. How tall you've grown, I thought to myself.  How handsome you've become. The baby face giving way to a more mature look.  The braces that have made it possible for you now to have such a dazzling smile.  And then you speak...

You tell me that you are surprised to find a "stone" in my change purse.  I remind you that you were the one that gave it to me, my good luck rock.  You laugh as you hold our "treasure" for a moment, throwing it gently above your head and catching it in your hand.  "But it's only a small stone" you say.  "Yes" I reply again.

You seem embarrassed for a moment, and I don't want you to be.  I watch you carefully put the small white stone back into my red change purse.  "Things always look BIGGER to you when you're a KID" you say.  I agree with you, as I watch you leave the room, head held high in confidence, and I feel so proud that you are mine.

I watch from the window as you walk down the street pushing your lawn mower looking like the Thirteen Year Old that you are now.  I open my small red change purse and take out my "good luck stone" and as I watch you go, I rub it just once more, for luck. 

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TO MY SIXTEEN YEAR OLD SON....FROM HIS MOTHER    by b. Malin

Here I am again wanting to give you some "motherly" advice, but before I do.  Let me start off by saying, "A Very Happy and Healthy Sixteenth Year to You, my "First Born Son.  May all your Hopes, and Wishes, and Dreams come True!  You are a beautiful person.  May you stay that way always.

I know that you can hardly wait for next month to come, when you will be "Legally" able to drive.  I know too that you are a "Good Driver."  I have always ( except for ONCE ) felt relaxed, with you behind the wheel and me the passenger. So please, no Unnecessary Chances behind the wheel.  Where ever you are going, DO THE SPEED LIMIT. You won't get there any faster by taking silly chances to save a few minutes in time.  And above all, don't ever take the other drivers actions for granted...DRIVE DEFENSIVELY!

Please don't get angry at me for talking to you like this, for I only tell you these things because you are so "Special" to all of us....and I as your mother, I don't ever want to OUTLIVE YOU, because of a careless mistake.  A chance taken without thinking.  It would all be too cruel and it would destroy me too.

If this is all coming across a bit heavy, I'm sorry.  I really didn't mean to.  But if I've succeeded in making you think about what I'm saying, then I'm glad, and I will not bring up this subject again.

Enjoy your life my son.  Do all that you wish with it, and make excuses to none for your style... and don't break too many "hearts" along the way!

Love, Mom