I loved you when you stood at the door and knocked softly. Your hair – lit from behind by the yellow rays of the porch light – glowed. Your hair – so long, so thick, so beautiful (your mother said it was unfair a boy should have such hair) – moved with the wind, the glowing strands swirled around your face and head. Behind you the darkness of the night.

*

It’s funny because the crystal is pretty. Quite pretty. So, when I stumble across it, nestled in the carpet at the top of the stairs, my first thought is of its beauty. It is white and very clear. Sharp edges. It could have been a sugar crystal. Or it could have been a crystal grown with a kit like the one he got for his birthday when he was little. It had that look. But of course, it’s not that kind of crystal. Since he isn’t home, I rummage through his room. I find a little glass pipe inside a sock in the top drawer of his dresser. And a little zip-lock bag. It is empty, except for some almost invisible powdered bits caught in the corner. It would have meant nothing to me if I had found it in another context.

I thought when he moved home it would be brief. That my grown son, recently fired from his job, would be here just long enough for me to wish he’d stay longer. But he can’t seem to find his way, can’t seem to get his feet back under him.

“Often, I hear him up at night. Well, not night. Early in the morning – 2 a.m., 3 a.m. He’s awake now. I hear him moving around in his bedroom that’s so close to mine.” It’s impossible for me to sleep while he is over there. I put on headphones, put on some white noise, but it doesn’t help. I can still hear him. I can feel his energy coming from his room, sliding under my closed door, pushing through the walls. My stomach feels like I’ve run ten miles and I’m being made to run ten more – it is empty, acidic. Worn out. I keep trying to sleep, to forget he is over there. I count backwards from one thousand by threes. I meditate. I try to think of trails I’ve hiked or want to hike. I listen to my breathing. Still, I’m awake.

I’m sure I smell cigarette smoke and this makes me contemplate stalking across the hall to yell at him. He’s not supposed to smoke inside. I laugh at myself – I’m all set to go yell at him for smoking cigarettes inside but don’t say a word about finding meth on my stairs. The truth is after I found the crystal, I put it in the little baggie and threw it on his floor. I told myself I was doing this to be tough. I told myself doing this would show him I knew what was going on. But I know what I really wanted was to take this thing he and I were going through and make it easy on me. I didn’t want to have to have “a talk” with him. I didn’t want to say out loud all the things I was supposed to say. Even worse, I admit to myself that part of the reason I tossed it in his room is because I was worried that since he had no job or money, he might do something terrible to replace his lost drugs.

I tell myself he is probably self-medicating. I tell myself I’ve seen in him the symptoms of his mother’s mental illness, so of course, he is looking for a way to not think about that, to not be scared, to not look at his mother’s struggles and see his future. Does he worry he’ll be in and out of mental hospitals like her? I turn the white noise higher, and the pain in my stomach expands up into my chest. I put my hands behind my head as I’m stretched out across the mattress; I kick one leg out from under the blankets and stare at the smooth white ceiling. There are some cobwebs in the corner I’ll have to remember to sweep away.

I don’t sleep most of the night, or maybe I dream I’m awake. It’s hard to tell. The white noise becomes part of both my sleep and awake worlds. In the morning when I leave for work, the sun has barely risen, but he is in the driveway, doing something in his mother’s car. He sees me and comes rushing over. He beams his smile at me. His long hair is pulled back in an attempted bun but hair is everywhere. Some hangs beside his face. Some hangs in front of his face and he brushes it away. Some strands are damp and stick to his forehead.

“I cleaned your guys’ cars,” he says smiling at me.

There is trash all over the driveway – the refuse from the cars – old coffee cups and wrappers. A straw. An empty plastic grocery bag rolls like a tumbleweed in the soft breeze. I think about telling him not to forget to pick up the trash he’s cleaned from the cars and deposited in the driveway.

Instead, I say, “Thanks. That’s really nice of you,” and I smile. I smile at his dilated pupils and sweaty smell. I smile at his dirty T-shirt and pants that I am just now realizing are too big for him.

I can see the little boy in him. I remember when I’d mow the lawn, and he’d be behind me with his toy lawnmower that made bubbles as he pushed it. I remember when he was little and every morning he’d come in the bathroom while I got ready for work. He’d sit covered with his blanket until I got out of the shower, and when I shaved, he’d shave too. His little face covered with shaving cream. A pretend razor in his hand as he stared in the mirror and pulled it across his face leaving lines of skin interspersed with the shaving cream.

I see all that in his face.

I walk to my car and in the driveway notice cigarette butts. Lots of cigarette butts. I look over and see them all over the ground below his bedroom window. They are everywhere – they litter the ground like my excuses.

*

I loved you when I nearly cried seeing your face again. Framed in the door’s tiny window, peering in at me as I approached. Your contagious smile still the same while somehow not. And I loved you even more when I wrapped my arms around your thinning body.

I loved you when you asked to come in. To once more be allowed in your home.

*

I answer the phone and the voice says, “this is a call from an inmate at…” so I press one and accept the call.

“Hi, Dad,” he says.

“What’s going on?” I ask. He answers, but all I hear is white noise – his voice in the background trying to push through and be heard. He tells me they think he stole from his job. He tells me they say he went in after closing and took a bunch of cleaning supplies and some money. He tells me it’s a misunderstanding. He says he will be going to court today, and he’ll probably get released on a signature bond. Can I come get him, and can I bring him a shirt? And some cigarettes?

“Of course,” I say.

A few hours later I exit the highway and stop at a gas station.

“A pack of American Eagles, please.”

“It is your lucky day,” says the cashier. “The rep just dropped off two-for-one coupons for those.”

“Yeah,” I say. “My lucky day.”

I give him some cash, take my change and turn to leave. Over the exit door there’s an old analog clock on the wall – I notice it’s an hour off.

I’m parked outside the jail, waiting for him. When he comes out, his hair is loose and wild. He has on long shorts that go past his knees and barely stay up at his waist, and no shirt.

“You hungry?” I ask. He grabs the shirt off the seat.

I pull into the Burger King and we go inside. He eats a lot. I’m glad to watch, glad he is eating. I pick at some fries and give him my burger. The place is mostly empty, but I see one older woman glance at us quickly, then look away.

He’s quiet as we begin the drive home.  He is quiet as I pull up through a stoplight then merge onto the highway.

“Where am I driving you to?” I ask. He takes heavy drags off a cigarette and blows smoke towards his open window. He is quiet as he smokes. He takes one last hard drag and throws the cigarette out the window.

Finally, he asks if he can come home. My turn to be quiet. I accelerate and pass two cars. Then I tell him he knows he can come home if he isn’t using, if he doesn’t use.

He is quiet again. He lights another cigarette. He turns and looks out the window. “Just drop me at Quade’s house,” he says, his head still turned away from me. He tells me Quade has been letting him stay in his garage. He says he is thinking of moving in with another friend Zach. Zach has a basement he can stay in.

*

 Although you don’t believe it, I loved you when I quietly said no and your face fell, and your smile slipped away, and you shrank from me and turned to leave.

*

His mother lets him in. He sits at the table and she gets out some leftovers, heats them in the microwave, puts the plate in front of him. He smiles up at her and she sits with him as he eats. She gets him more food. When he’s done, he goes into the living room and puts on the TV. I hear him laughing, then it is quiet. He has fallen asleep on the couch.

I say to her, “He can’t stay. You know that. Look at him.”

“He needs us,” she says.

I sit on the chair next to the couch and watch him sleep. His face is beautiful in sleep. When he was little, I used to read to him every night at bed time. I read “Goodnight Moon” so many times I still have it memorized. When we read “I Am a Bunny,” he gave me butterfly kisses when the bunny danced with the butterflies. He used to pay such close attention to “The Runaway Bunny” – he made up his own ways the bunny could run away. I made up new ways to find him.

My runaway bunny is on the couch. And when he wakes, I’ll have to make him leave. I’ll have to walk him to the door and shut it tight behind him. I’m afraid, though, that this time he’s made up a way to runaway that I can’t solve. I’m afraid I’ll never be able to find him.

*

I loved you so much then. When I watched you walk away. I love you the most right now. I try not to love myself the least.