February 2006: A Valentine from Peter

I received a valentine from my son today. A small enough event. Mothers all over the world were remembered that way, though perhaps the experience for most was not quite the same as it was this time for me.

I studied the signature for evidence of Peter’s own hand, wanting it to be, wanting it not to be. Because my son, young in years, is old in reality. Through illness, his life, his mind, the most basic kinds of control of his body are slipping away. And while I knew that his dear wife would have bought the card, addressed it, made sure it would be mailed at the right time, nonetheless, I paused long over the wavery signature . . . Love you, Peter. Was it possible? Could he still sign his name? Even with another hand guiding his?

In my deepest heart I don’t want it to be possible. I don’t want to think of my son struggling to the surface to perform this small task then being caught there, however briefly, to understand where he is. Away from his wife and three little boys, away from his parents and sister, away from his many friends, away from all the satisfactions and responsibilities of his adult life. Alone and shut away.