The First Real Hug

My son was 11 years old the first time he hugged me back. Like really hugged me back.

I know the exact date because it happened three days ago.

I had been gone for a few hours. Running errands. When I came in he wasn’t at the door where he usually waits for me.

Instead, he was in a different room. When I saw him, he waved me over by holding both arms up and outright and saying my name.

MMM-AW-MMM.

He looked at me as if he hadn’t seen me for days.

I immediately bent down to hug him. Like I always do.

I hug him. And I pour every ounce of love from my heart into him. He doesn’t need to hug me back. Because, well, I know he loves me.

But this time, three days ago, on a Saturday afternoon, my son not only wrapped his arms around me, but pulled me back in for a longer hug when I went to stand up.

I ended up falling into him, laughing, and he just held on, smiling.

I wasn’t going to share this. Because, well, I didn’t know if anyone would understand how huge it is.

But as I sit here tonight, thinking about life, I realized that I know the exact day and time that my son hugged me back.

And that’s almost unbelievable really.

To be able to pinpoint such an amazing moment in one’s life.

He was 11. And I was 38.

To be able to grab the moment in my hand, and tuck it away, and hold onto it forever.

He was wearing his favorite shirt. A red one. And he smelled like he had been in the sun all day.

Like the wind.

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