Vachon Imagined

It was a strange idea, though not uncommon for a mother who finds so much joy in watching her child come alive through new experiences. His laugh—my son’s laugh—could raise the dead. It could bring comfort to a hopeless child, give joy to someone aching for it. All of that contained in one laugh, one simple expression.

My birthday felt less about me and more about seeing him happy, because when he is happiest, so am I. Roller skating, I thought. That will do it. I have always felt love most through experiences, not money, not flattery. Experiences. The warmth of someone’s presence. Long conversations where rules don’t apply and nothing is owed. Just us.

As I skated beside him, watching his vibrancy and eagerness come alive, I realized again—later, when I drifted off to skate alone—that in my heart, I am still just a child myself. Looking inward, as though into a private mirror, I realized something else: I am now the woman I used to look at as a little girl and think, God, she’s old. Fifty-one, fully aware now of my mortality.

And maybe that voice was right. Maybe I am old.

But I am not dead.

I will never be dead through the experiences I gave my son, and the ones he gave back to me.