Oats to Share

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“Would you like some oatmeal?” I ask.

“Sure, that would be great,” Trinidad tells me. I don’t cook for him often these days. At twenty-four, he’s pretty self-sufficient. Trin co-owns a business. He passes through our home periodically during the 6 months that he’s not in Alaska working Northern Epics with his team.

Trinidad stands in our living room now while I set the table for Seda and me. The stars align.

I add more oats to the pot. A pinch of salt. Memories of oatmeal I’ve cooked for him across decades gather. My eyes fill with tears. Snowy mornings when he was five years old and couldn’t wait for me to be done so we could go sledding. Days he didn’t want to wake up and so came to the table bleary eyed, with coaxing 

Oatmeal is a small gift. It’s rooted in our history together. In three days, Trin will drive south for the winter. He’ll set up camp with his brother and business partner. Living out of their trucks, they'll run their business by wifi in coffee shops, hitting the slopes afterwards to ski for fun or to teach for money. I will not be able to feed him then.

Trin heads north to Alaska afterward. This is the new rhythm. The cells of my mother-body are learning to adapt. Going out to play now means working abroad for months before he comes in for dinner.

I am blessed to share this time with Trin. Every moment spent with my grown boys is cherished. The oatmeal comes to a boil. I stir the pot and turn it off. It will sit while I go teach a class. “Your oatmeal’s ready,” I tell him.

“Thank you,” he says. Giving and receiving. I appreciate the expertise he shares with me about my business. I love his company. We appreciate one another. Eating in shifts, we are fed across decades by oats and love.