Full circle
Times Square, New York City, early on a Sunday morning, summer 1996. The day before, we’d taken our son Henry, age six, to see his first musical, Beauty & the Beast, on Broadway. A friend working on the show had reserved our seats, front and center, and had arranged a backstage tour after the final curtain. Henry had been allowed to walk around on the set. He’d touched the teacups and candlesticks and glimpsed the piano gleaming in the orchestra pit. He’d shaken hands with the Beast himself, who had been kind and friendly to this scrawny little kid who knew every song in the show by heart. And now, the next morning, all Henry wanted was to go back and do it all over again.
My husband snapped the photo because it was so not like our shy, mild-mannered son to be demanding. And it was so not like me to ever speak sternly to him. And yet, there we were, facing off in the first (and pretty much the only) argument we’ve ever had. (There is another photo in this series, in which I’m actually shaking a finger, in vain.)
I think the whole scene cracked Steve up — while the rest of Manhattan slept, the three of us were out on a street corner trying to explain to our star-struck child that Broadway shows aren’t like videos, and that you can’t just wander in and watch them whenever you want to.
What we didn’t quite realize, as Henry stood his ground, insisting he would go back to Broadway, was that a dream was taking shape in his six-year-old mind. Now that he knew this magical place existed, where musicals came to life every night in darkened theaters, he suddenly had a vision of his own future, an answer to the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
The dream stuck. He’s twenty-four now, and he’s stayed the course. Played a lot of piano. Applied for a lot of jobs. Gotten a few. Come in second too many times. But late on Monday night, the call he’s been waiting for all his life finally came. And since I’m his mom, and therefore have never doubted, I wasn’t all that surprised. But I am incredibly proud to say our son has finally come full circle. Next job: music production assistant for Aladdin on Broadway.
Tonight, as I was making dinner, Henry sat at the piano in our living room, playing Gershwin. It’s been snowing all day, and the snow is still coming down, closing us in here with one another. Jack, recovering from the removal of two wisdom teeth first thing this morning, is laying low, applying ice, reading a Stephen King novel. We watched a movie this afternoon, drank a lot of tea, looked at all our old photo albums, hung out and did a lot of nothing. As I type these words, the guys are watching basketball in the other room with a friend, eating ice cream and making a racket. Soon our sons will leave, and it will be just the two of us here again. I know I’ll miss the noise, the crowd around the dinner table, the lovely sense of security and connectedness I feel only when we are all gathered together under one roof.
And yet, knowing that the house will soon be quiet again, and too empty, I also think of a line I’ve always loved: ”There are two lasting bequests we can give our children: one is roots; the other, wings.” And I am here to say, there is nothing more thrilling than bearing witness to their flight.
(I had planned to write something this week about the forthcoming paperback of Magical Journey – pub date: January 21. But, well, Henry’s news is more exciting than mine. Lots to tell you about next time, though.)
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