"And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where westarted and know the place for the first time." - T.S. Eliot

My mother once told me, “ I love you, but I don’t always like you.”  I can’t be certain, but I think at the time, I must have been 17.

I remember thinking that it was an unusually mean thing to say to someone as wonderful as me.  I mean, how was it possible that she didn’t like me?  All my friends liked me.  They thought I was clever and witty and exceedingly funny. How was it possible that my very own mother did not see the qualities that undoubtedly shone like a beacon from the deepest recesses of my soul?

How indeed.

Those words came back to me as I drove down the freeway, tears streaming down my face after yet another altercation with the horrible creature that now inhabits my son’s body.  Apparently, at a moment when I wasn’t paying attention, someone or something swooped in and snatched our oldest, leaving in his place an alien being who, while physically resembling the child I gave birth to 17 years ago, otherwise bears no resemblance to the original.  It is as though I have landed in one of those creepy sci-fi thrillers and I keep waiting for the moment when his skin begins to blister, taking on a reptilian hue, his lizard like tail bursting out from underneath his oversized gym shorts.

I was sitting in the school parking lot, ready to join in the caravan that was heading south to transport the baseball team to a semifinal game across the bay.  “We need drivers,” the email from the coach requested and so, ever the helpful mom, I emailed back.  I was available if he needed me.

“Coach says you’re driving,” the alien said, the look of disdain dripping from the corners of his mouth.

“It wasn’t exactly my idea,” I said back, taking the deep breaths that have become so customary in my dealings with him these days.  “He said there weren’t enough drivers and I was trying to be helpful.”  The truth was, I was planning to go anyway.  What was the harm in leaving a few hours earlier if it helped the team out?

And so there I was.  The car gassed and ready to go.  I had emptied out the dirty socks and week-old pile of mail and the crushed soda cup from Panda Express that was tossed, unceremoniously, in the back seat.   I had gone to the bank to get bridge toll and put in the last of the power steering fluid to minimize any embarrassing “noises” from our “oldie but goodie” vehicle.  I thought briefly about running the car through the car wash, but in the end, opted for the “as is” condition of the day.   I pulled into the shade of an oak tree and sat patiently as the players came out in their uniforms and checked the contents of their baseball bags, readying them for the trip south.

“No one’s coming in our car,” the alien said sullenly, flopping himself into the passenger side seat.  I inhaled, filling my lungs with oxygen and praying for divine intervention.

“Oh?” I said, sweetly. “How come?”

“They’re all going with John because we don’t have air conditioning.”  And then, as if to add insult to injury, “Everyone already has a seat.  We don’t need you.”

I breathed again, deeply.  In and out.  In and out.  Slowly, so as not to hyperventilate which I felt was a good possibility given the immediate turn of events.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.

I do this with my writing group.  Before our writing practice each week, we meditate.  It is, as I tell them, to get yourself into the room.  To put away the distractions and stress of the day.  To bring yourself into your body, into your experience.  To be here now.

However at that exact moment, it wasn’t helping.  Being here now didn’t seem like such a great idea.

The alien grabbed his equipment bag from the back of the car. “I’ll see you at the game,” he mumbled and slammed the door shut leaving me alone in the parking lot like the fat kid who is left for last after all the teams have been picked for kickball.

In.  Out.  In.  Out.

It wasn’t working.  My eyes welled up with tears.  I put the car in gear and began to drive out of the parking lot, the tears streaming down my face just as I reached the street.  I had to get out of there.

I thought about running away.  I thought about boarding a plane to Tuscany.  I’d leave no forwarding address.  I would change my name to Gabriella and live atop a hillside, only coming down to shop periodically for mozzarella and prosciutto and a crisp white Pinot Grigio.

That’ll show him.

Or perhaps I’ll wake up some night to a room filled with bright, white light.  I’ll walk into the back yard and board a space ship that is hovering just above the tree line and I’ll speak to the person in charge.

“I want my son back,” I’ll tell him.  “You’ve had him long enough.  It’s time for him to come home.”

I want him back.

My neighbor Lois tells me that he will come back eventually.  “When he’s 20 or so,” she promised me.

“20?” I repeated, just to make sure I heard her correctly.  “How can you be so sure?”

“He’ll be back,” she repeated, knowingly.

I sure hope so.