Waving Goodbye

I'm almost late. My appointment in thirty minutes is half an hour away. Jack trails me to the door.

"Hug and Kiss at the door, Mommy," he says. I'm not surprised. Jack always wants a hug and kiss at the door. It can't be a tight squeeze in the playroom or a quick kiss between zooming cars through the living room or a little smooch in the kitchen. It must be a hug and kiss at the door. The fingers of one hand tangle purposely into my ponytail. The other hand squeezes uncomfortably about my neck as he pulls me in for a kiss and hug. I squat to kiss and hug my boy.

"Okay," I rush breathlessly to stand, "I've got to go, Jack, I'm late."

"One more kiss and hug," he strangles me back to his level, pecks at me with his little wet lips and swipes his cheek to mine in a hug. I feel snot on my cheek where his runny nose left its mark.

"Okay," I repeat, untangling his fingers and pushing myself from him to squeeze through a slit in the door, "I've really got to go."

"Lots of hugs and kisses," he demands, pulling me back, "and then wave at the window." I nod. I really don't need such specific instructions after the hundredth time. I'm not so dense. With machine gun rapidity, he taps me on my mouth with his. Then, "a hug for each kiss," the cheek gets smacked against mine ten or twelve times.

I irritably wonder why his father hasn't gotten up off his chair to come rescue me from this affectionate assault so I can make it to my appointment on time. Probably sensing my exasperation, Daddy speaks. His voice floats absently down the hall, "Jack, Mommy has to go." Great, thanks, I think.

I submit myself to one more set of "lots of hugs and kisses" and then shove myself through the door. As I slip away, Jack bounces anxiously up and down and reminds me, "Now wave at the window. Not too fast and not too slow, Mommy."

Striding to the car, I wonder what he means. It's a new final phrase. I think he means, don't leave before he gets to the window, but also, don't leave him waiting there too long. Probably added after trash day, when Daddy delayed his departure to take the trash to the street.

It's dusk. I back out of the garage, move down the driveway, and turn left. My window is already down, my arm sticking out, slicing through the chilly air, moving obediently back and forth. My foot impatiently waits to press harder on the gas pedal. I stare dutifully toward the office window where I know my five year old is standing. Yes, there he is.

The room glows golden, my son haloed by the light. His fragile hand is raised, he is pressed up against the window, his mouth seems to move. I can almost make it out, I can almost hear it, even though he's behind dual paned windows, "Bye, Mommy, I love you," my eyes blur, my heart aches, my foot rises. I soak it in.

I absorb the adoration shining through the window as he's waving goodbye.