Prodigal Sons

Three months after graduating from high school I was marching around navy boot camp in San Diego as PSA airplanes flew overhead. Two nights before heading to the recruiter's office and the van that would take me to the Oakland airport for the late flight to San Diego, my girlfriend, my then-best friend and his girlfriend, and I drank too much but nevertheless survived. I had told my parents that my girlfriend would be taking me to the recruiter's office, and when she showed up to do so I hugged my parents as we congregated in the kitchen, probably said goodbye to whichever sisters were there, then got into my girlfriend's car for the short ride to the awaiting van. We sat in the car for many minutes before I got out, and that was the first time I had a woman cry on my shoulder. Christ, that was painful, and all I could think of as I walked up the sidewalk away from the car was her sitting there crying.

Nine weeks later I was home again, my hair shorter and my posture straighter, where I would stay for 2 weeks before saying goodbye to everyone again and heading to Pensacola, Florida, for my technical school. The plane was full, but as we lifted and into the darkness, I felt more alone than I ever had. I remember writing lyrics to a Rod Stewart tune as I sat there, lyrics that I hoped someday to give to my girlfriend but never did. Then, somewhere in those 4 months in Pensacola, I found reason to believe that my girlfriend and I should break up, so I took the coward's way out and said as much in a letter. She called at some point and I stood in the phonebooth on our barracks and listened callously as she cried. I was heartless but it took me many years to know it.

After another short visit home that included a visit to a party that did not end well, I was off to Japan where I would stay for over 2 years. When my tour was over, I returned home to a minimum-wage job delivering furniture that I quit when I started college. I was glad to be home, glad to not have someone telling me what to do all the time, where to stand, when to eat, what to where--that necessary stuff that goes along with the military. I bought a car with money I'd saved, and I reaquainted myself with my neighborhood, the city, and old friends, some of whom behaved as though they were still in high school but nevertheless were good to be around. Only after graduating from college and finally getting a "real" job in San Francisco did I move away again, this time with a wife and son. Always, though, even for brief visits, I was glad to step back into my parents' house; I sometimes felt that I'd never really been gone.

All of this comes to mind because my sons are coming home for Thanksgiving, though for how long we don't know. One says things will be temporary, another will be returning to college, and yet another is noncommital. None of them has been gone either as long or as far as I was, but they have nonetheless been away on their own, each finding his own true path or at least an indication of one. I never asked my parents how they felt about my leaving, for neither was prone to self-disclosure or outward expression of emotion. That day I left them in the kitchen and walked out the door with my girlfriend, what did they think? Were they glad for me and sad for themselves? Did they know (as I have learned) that one way or another sons come home?