Today is the anniversary of David’s death. Two years, already. The phone rings after midnight. I answer the phone and no one is there. Was it David? I have heard their spirit will sometimes be responsible for the phone to ring. He often called me from the Bar. I so miss those phone calls. Thank God I never ignored or hung up on him. I never valued my sleep over hearing from him.

I am remembering the time David and I, after a night of drinking around the Square, were staggering down the dock to the Mariner II. I tripped and David, in trying to catch me fell and broke his arm. We went to the boat and David was complaining about the pain in his arm. “I think it is broken, Mom.”, he whined. I said, in the
non-compassionate style of my Mother; “Oh David, don’t be such a baby, take a couple of aspirins and go to bed.” I proceeded to go to bed and passed out. Instead of calling a friend or someone near-by, David reverted to being a hurt “Little Boy”. He called his Dad, in Richmond!.

The next morning, seeing the cast on his arm, he informed me that Ray had driven over from Richmond and taken him to Emergency. I was embarrassed and feeling guilty. But, also knowing how much Ray would milk the story, was dreading the fall-out.

David with his uncanny sense of humor solved the whole issue. By going around saying in a baby voice; “My Mommy, broke my itty, bitty arm”. I took a marker and wrote on the cast; “MOM DID IT”!

David was 22 years old at the time. And in good physical shape and he towered over me. I would smile and say; “Yep! That is right, and that was only for using poor grammar”. And of course David would chime in;
“Don’t mess with my Momma. Show them your biceps, Mom.”