by Jeff Gomez
Mark can’t believe it’s over. All those weeks of preparation. The months spent agonizing over whether or not to make the trip. The anxiety. The questions. Would people show up? Would he be able to get on stage and play if they did? All of that now fades away. It’s done. Mark feels deflated. Curiously empty.
He thinks about his life in Manhattan, his apartment and job. They seem as distant to him now as that life would have seemed when he lived here, when he could only imagine what it would be like to be the age he is now. He thinks of his co-workers, his neighbors. The place where he gets bagels, the pizza joint on the corner he can see from his living room. Somehow he doesn’t believe that life belongs to him. That that’s where he ended up.
Finally, he spots them. His parents look out of place among the sweaty rockers and middle-aged well-wishers. After he waves at them from across the room, they begin to make their way through the boisterous crowd.
His mom reaches him first. She gives him a big hug and a kiss. She says something, but it’s lost in the noise of the room. His dad is next. They hug. His father feels like bones in a suit. He pats his back and pulls away, looking into Mark’s eyes. They’re his eyes. He says one word, tears forming.
“Son.”