By Joanne LePoidevin

Although the trees stood silent, I felt the brush against my skin like a gentle breeze. The sky mirrored the clarity of spring. The birds chirped, greeting the sunlit day. 

My hand lightly touches my shoulder, recognizing the sensation, a warm feeling sweeping through my body like a tender embrace. I know it is him, my son, letting me know he is here. He never leaves me. I smile when I remember his off-key voice singing California Dreamin’, hoping he will move here one day.

My thoughts drift back to the days he walked the beach in Laguna. He walked ahead while I lagged, watching him stroll, lost in deep thought. I wondered what he was thinking. He seemed to be deep in prayer or meditation. The soft ocean breeze and the waves lapped at our feet. The sun warmed our faces. We were happy together before he left his weekend visit back to the desert landscape of Arizona. This was the last time I saw him. Saw his smile. Felt his warm hugs around my shoulders. I remember the sound of “Hi Mom” when he enters the house with luggage. And the “See you soon” from his hopeful voice, giving me a sweet kiss on my cheek, opening the door that would never close for him. Memories comfort me, and the occasional signs of his presence. I feel his touch on my shoulder and a whisper, like angel wings brushing against me, to let me know he is here.

My smile acknowledges his presence. 

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Joanne LePoidevin writes essays, fiction, and travelogue stories based on her travels to over twenty-two countries. Her writing explores grief, resilience and the complexities of women’s experiences. She is currently at work on The Final Putt, a crime mystery set in an exclusive desert golf community.