Friday Boy, & Blues? or .... ? somethin, anyway

A note (before I start payroll) to ... sigh ...

My youngest male child is eighteen years old as of 12:03 a.m. EIGHTEEN. A man, legally at least. Enough so that he has to register for the draft. That he's getting his driver's license without me. That he's graduating from high school in about 6 weeks. That he's entertaining athletic scholarship offers from schools that might conceivably take him pretty far out of my sphere, ya know?

I feel weird.
Not old, just weird.
Not bad or even good, just weird.

I'm listening to Tony Bennett, 'Playin with my friends', cuz it's quiet & soothing & sassy sometimes.
I'm thinking about my youngest's amazing amber eyes, how when he was a newborn and I breastfed him, he would rest one palm on the rounded part of my upper breast, and then open & close his fist in rhythm with his sucking. I'm thinking how he never took his eyes off me, ever, never drifted off to sleep, never did the heavy-lidded blinks ... just steady, constant eye contact. I'm thinking how his breathing then (& all his life since) could, & can, hypnotize me to sleep in a matter of seconds, and I'm notorious for my sleep difficulties. I'm thinking of his thick, kind of coarse, perfectly curled and heavy hair (when he lets it grow), and how I can't stop myself from running my fingers through it every time I pass him. I'm thinking how he loves salads & fruit & PEPPERONI pizza, Mom! I'm thinking how lately he likes to come out to the patio where I'm writing & roosting & talk to me while at the same time brushing his teeth & foaming at the mouth.

I'm thinking how much I love him.