Susan Senator

Perspective is a gift of getting older. More and more, I understand why my dad reminds me of how he struggled with certain issues when he was my age, and how getting older grants you the ability to see beyond them, and to let go, even with a smile. It is true: I remember how, years ago, my therapist told me to picture that younger me, struggling with something or other, and asked what I would say to her now, if I could. I felt so much compassion for that more innocent self. I felt like my own mother.

When Nat calls these days, our phone conversations are very different from any other interaction we had shared before his move-out. He never says, “No talk to Mommy.” He gets right on the phone, and even though his voice trembles with some emotion, he always talks to me now and answers my questions. He provides content, which is a very new development. It is as if, by leaving, he has been propelled to another level, where he actually feels the need to communicate with me in a way I will understand. He needs, more than ever, to connect and he seems to be aware of that. He did not ask for our street the last time we talked. Instead, he told me about going running with Jack, and how he had had Chinese food for dinner. His voice was small and a little sad — or something — but he was talking to me because he wanted to.

Last night I got a call at 11 p.m. from Max, who had forgotten to call during the day. He is in Vermont with Hannah and her family. I put him on a greyhound Monday morning, reaching up to hug his hard broad shoulders and to kiss his impassive face. Even though I felt some trepidation for him, traveling four hours on his own among strangers, I also felt the excitement he must be feeling, setting out on his first journey alone, to be with his very favorite person. I remember being nineteen, and getting on the train at Stamford, to make the four-hour journey up to Boston to spend time with my amazing boyfriend Ned. The breathless moment of stepping off the train and spotting his handsome face in his ratty clothes. Knowing we had all that time just to be together, in this fantastic fun town. My head swims with the high of that moment.

Max was a little sheepish at first, knowing that he had not done what I had asked him to do. But there was something else that shaped his tone, a softness, a curl of happiness that I had never heard from him on the phone, or perhaps had not heard in a long time. What surprised and touched me even more was the content. He kept offering information, descriptions. He told me how cows were “really disgusting, because they lick their noses, and so their faces are always wet with either saliva or snot.” And laughed. He described a beautiful large house, an icy cold pond. Crazy stars.

When I got off the phone, I felt happy, full. I think it was because for the first time in a long time, Max really wanted to talk to me.