When I first met Jeff, he was a young teenager and I was in my mid-thirties.  He was a sweet, introverted, Keanu Reeves look-alike.   

I’d not seen him for fifteen years when he e-mailed me last summer. 

Now he was a thirty-year-old struggling singer-songwriter, touring the country.  He might be in the Bay Area later in the year.  I told him we’d love to see him and he was welcome to stay with us.  I was both surprised to hear from him, and to find he’s one of those people I feel connected to no matter how much time has passed.

Halloween.  Twelve-thirty a.m.  The phone woke me from a deep slumber. 

“Hey, Marianne, that offer still open?  Played a house party in Oakland and I think the party’s going all night.”

I gave directions and told him the front door was unlocked.  He should head down the stairs to the futon in our family room.  I crawled back into bed, warmed myself against my husband, and whispered to him that Jeff was coming.

“That’s crazy,” my husband said.

My eleven-year-old son, Nick, was taken aback the next morning when he learned his mother had let a near stranger walk into our unlocked house at one a.m.

“Who is it again?”  he asked.  “Uncle Peter’s ex-wife’s son?”  He threw his hands up.  “Is he even a cousin to me?”

The cupboard was bare.  Nick and I dashed to Safeway for cereal and milk and to the French bakery for morning buns and cinnamon bread.  I’d been running on empty for a month.   No cooking.

Jeff is in my kitchen, sitting on a stool at the counter.  I’m pouring him strong coffee as he brings my husband and me up to date on his last fifteen years.  He’s a gorgeous man.  What used to come across as introverted now comes across as cool and smooth.  Long and lean, a beautiful mix of French, German and Native American.  He’s played small venues since June, mostly sleeping in his car.  His life is tough but he seems unencumbered, free.

Jeff fascinates me.  I never ever followed my passions like he is doing.  I feel like such a suburban matron at times but here I have this roaming troubadour in my kitchen.  I’m excited.  Maybe I’m not so dull after all.

He headed down to Santa Monica a few hours later.  He hugged us, thanked us, and hugged us again.  Then gave us four copies of his CD.

I miss him already.  

I don’t exactly know why. 

His visit brought me inward.  I’m not clear if I want to mother him or make love to him. 

That combination reaction is unsettling. 

I’m lost in myself this week.  It feels a little scary and a little good.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: By Marianne Lonsdale, Free-Spirit

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# posted by Writing Mamas Salon @ 12:01 AM