I didn't see you at first, standing behind me. I was puzzled, seeing your brothers and sisters sitting at our dining room table together. Why were they home? I didn't remember.  I asked where you were. Your eldest brother, Dan,  pointed and said, "He's there. I picked him up." I turned and my eyes widened.

You stood there, not the lanky, pale-skinned teenager I expected, but a little boy, no more than five years old.
"Joel," I gasped. You ran to me and climbed onto my lap, snuggling your head against my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around your small frame, and held you so tight. You didn't speak as I rocked you back and forth, back and forth, not sure how this was possible, but loving the moment. 

I looked up at my other grown children, and your twelve-year-old sister, and said, "Look at him! Can you believe it? He needed his mama so much, his body regressed to be a child again." I kissed your head and held you to my chest, trying to comfort you. I felt your small body relax against me and I smiled, whispering, "It's okay sweetheart. It's okay."

The shriek of the alarm clock tore my dream to shreds. As it fell in pieces around me. I whispered, "No," protesting this cruel return to reality. Turning the alarm to silent, I lay still for a moment more, closing my eyes and willing the dream to return. I might as well have wished for the sun to shine at midnight. It was gone. You were gone and my arms were empty. 

I thought of the brief hug you gave me last week when I saw you in town.  At six feet tall, you tower over me, and I looked up at your gaunt face and glazed eyes as you assured me you were not doing drugs. A lie, of course, and we both knew it. You want me to believe it, and I wish I could, but your concerned friends keep me posted and I know the reality. If only you did.

The reality is that you are on a path that leads to prison, or death. I have pleaded, begged and prayed. I have sat with you through Rehab, and visited you in jail. I have helped you too much, because I find it so hard to tell you no. I have blamed myself for your troubles, even though you tell me I was a good mom. It doesn't feel like it. Even though your brothers and sisters are all doing so well in life, I can't help but wonder where I went wrong with you? I made mistakes, for sure, and I wish I could go back in time and be what you needed to choose a different path, all the while knowing it was your path to choose, and you made those choices despite all the opportunities you were given.

I climbed out of bed and woke your little sister for school. I thought of the letter you wrote to her when you were in Rehab, telling her how sorry you were for letting her down, promising her you would make it up to her now that you were clean and drug-free and begging her never to become involved with drugs. Just two months later, you were gone again, lured back by the Siren of the deep, bottomless ocean of drugs. It's a life-style full of empty promises floating around the dark water like life-jackets with a slow, bubbling leak beneath the surface. You were lost again, before we even knew you were gone.

The dream ended, but the memory lingers. I wanted it to last, but more than that, I wanted it to be real. I still hope. I can't not hope and pray for you every day. I want my son back, not just that little boy who knew where to run when life frightened him, but my son -- the fine young man you could be, if only . . .  if only dreams were real and drugs were not.