He’s eight years old today. A mother loves to look at her son, to give
him all the gifts an eight year old boy enjoys.
Today is a special day at the California Angels stadium; it’s the day
Rod Carew is supposed to beat the record of home I
as the mother, look over at my eight year old boy. He’s curled up on the seat, his slight frame
chilled from the wind. I see that for a
moment he pretends he isn’t sick, doesn’t have pain, doesn’t feel colder than
all the rest. He
gives me that look that only a son can give his mother. He turns his head slightly, with an impish
grin, and throws me a kiss, with a wink and a slight sparkle in his eye. I think about that look, I close my eyes and
I think about that look. It’s been
twenty-six years since I’ve seen it.
Note: The look, is one of the first things I think about when I see Louis. He had a way with the look. Not many words just a look. I miss it. I think about a baby dreaming about playing baseball. I think about what accomplishments he would have made. Would he had been a baseball player, maybe not. From a young age he loved baseball, that's why even in sickness we were at the Angel game that day. He wanted to erase the sickness and replace it with a good memory, a baseball game. The picture to me symbolizes what a child may dream of, what a mother might dream about for her son. So sweet, so innocent, so many lessons for a mother to learn about her son. "Even in sickness he looked for the good, for something better, something more encouraging like who would win the game. Louis lived his life to the best of his ability, pushing through pain, through one more disappointing day. He didn't let that get the better of him, he wasn't too busy to give me the look. He focused on something better, something more hopeful. Yes, I miss the look, it was comforting, it gave me hope, it gave me peace. I look for those looks in my other children, in my grandchildren, in complete strangers. The looks matter. Treasure them.
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