A boy & his mother, a barista dude & a holy day in May

It was exactly this time last year: May 8, 2013.

The time too exact: 11 o’clock in the morning.

It it then that my son and I reunited.

Rather, in my world, reunited and in his met for the first time, 32 years after I relinquished him for adoption.

Oh, the stories from then to now, pages so rich, so overflowing with experiences and emotions that they could not be contained by their margins.

May 8, 2013. Eleven o’clock in the morning. Not 8 or 9, the probable choice by a majority, especially for a big occasion.

“Night owl,” he’d self-described in his first letter that I vividly remember receiving and reading time and time again. May 2007, around Mother’s Day, in Tacoma, Washington. I too a night owl, dad as well.

The great distances, emotionally and physically, moreso the former in my boy’s world, traveled to get to our reunion/meeting. Funny how parents still call their offspring “boy” and “girl” though they be full-grown adults in their 30s, 40s, 50s, with lives and spouses and children of their own.

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It is a meeting like no other. Mother and son reuniting. It cannot be like any other, including the ones that will follow.

It is: timeless.

It is, literally, only Peter and I in the cafe that he’s selected as our rendevouz spot in Reno, Nevada, a neutral town between his residence in California and mine in Colorado when the selection was made.

Well, the barista, a cool dude with tats and piercings, is present behind the counter. He’s not involved. However, he is, in that sense, the sole human witness to our reuniting.

Peter even says as much after our long embrace. The last time I’d held him in my arms, he was 5 weeks old. Now he is a man. Standing instead of lying on back or tummy, talking instead of crying in infancy.

“This is my mother and this is our first time to meet,” Peter tells the barista after our hug.

“Cool” or something to that effect he replies. No need for Barista Dude to understand the significance of this momentous event unfolding before his eyes. I get it. Peter gets it. And the only other witnesses, etheric beings unseen and above us, get it.

And thus begins a new chapter in a story started decades ago, in 1975 in a dorm at the University of California-Berkeley. It’s where Mark and I, residents of the co-ed 8th floor, met, became best friends and eventually more {oh so much more}. A love like no other and the origin of the arrival of Peter six years later.

We, Mark and I, a voluminous story there, parted eventually. And Peter remained. Not with me. Another story of relinquishment, anguish and ultimately adoption.

His life, those first 32 years, has been a good one. He says as much in the nine hours we talk. Walking and talking and eating and drinking and talking more and sitting quietly over single slices of pizza and beer in a funky parlor, which closes our first day.

And I believe him. I believe those 32 years have been good to him and his family too, for I selected them for who and what they were and could give Peter that I, as a single parent, could not.

There was just one thing “missing” in his first 32 years. Me. I was not seen in his life, neither he in mine. But oh the heart, my heart, it had never left Peter. It had neither departed nor turned away, though appearances spoke otherwise.

Until May 8, 2013 … at that cool little cafe in Reno. Mother and son meeting … reuniting … talking.

And I swear, though it was audible not to Barista Dude, I heard the watercolor pastels of pinks, yellows, blues, lavender and white in the etheric dimension shift and from a clearing came a sound that can be described only as holy … a sound of splendor … the word of love … a mother and son, reuniting … and meeting to begin anew their own journey.

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Happy 1-year anniversary, Peter. May our story only grow like the pine, tall outside the kitchen window at which I now sit writing, establishing her roots securely in her soil.