A Spring Morning, Eleven Years from Now
I pour coffee into my favorite mug - the pottery one with the blue swoosh that looks like an angel wing. Coffee is truly a gift from heaven, I think, as the coconut milk swirls in mesmerizing patterns. I am hypnotized for a moment, sleepy eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. I wear glasses more now, in my 40s. Dry eyes, designing on screens, and finally finding a pair that feels nearly weightless on my face.
The house is quiet, just how I like it at dawn. I have converted to Morning Person, but my brain still needs to get its bearings before talking to anyone or heeding requests for breakfast. They are teenagers, but they still like it best when I make breakfast. I shuffle downstairs and fluff the laundry, then haul the load up to fold. This is the final load - the last call for undies and socks and favorite jeans - before we head to the airport.
When I get back upstairs, Ken is there, pouring honey into his favorite mug - the brown one from Holy Island, engraved with an image of St. Aidan. I smile and peer into the dimly lit kitchen, watching him stir. A lump rises in my throat thinking about being there again. I feel it immediately - the cool sea breeze that smells like salt and fish. I hear the soft echoes inside the old church and taste the vinegary crunch of beer batter in the garden. In my mind, I lift a pint glass to my lips, cold lager like an ancient balm. Even 20 years on, these memories are crisp and fresh. I am there in an instant.
We will be there, all four of us, in just three days. We will be walking that shore, climbing the steps to that castle, standing in silence among the ruins of the abbey built by our son’s namesake: Aidan of Lindisfarne. When our legs are tired and our stomachs rumble, we will walk to The Crown and Anchor by the harbor and find a table in the beer garden. The sun will dip in and out of cloud cover, and we will alternate between wearing our sunglasses and wrapping scarves around our necks. I will take it all in: the priory, the sea, the boy. Full circle, I’ll think. We planted dreams in this garden, and one of them was to bring him back here.
I’ll dab my eyes and smile as Ken returns from the bar with three brimming glasses of beer. Aidan will look nervous, ever the rule-follower. Are you sure I’m old enough?, he’ll ask. Eighteen. Eighteen years after his first time on Lindisfarne, when I posed beside the ruins, cupping my enormous belly and glowing in the late afternoon sun. He’ll have his first pint here, we said. And here we are, our Aidan’s petite hand around 20 ounces of English lager, waiting for one of us to say something important. Coleman looks a little envious of all the attention, but he sips his Coke and giggles. Rolling with the punches, as little brothers do.
On that sacred day, we will - say something important - though I’m not sure what. We will toast to the past and the future. To the seeds planted on this island in 2010, to the baby born two years later in Edinburgh, to this moment, and everything that has come between. To the legacy of love that St. Aidan left here, and the one that our Aidan carries. On and on and on.
