Mason reached into his pocket and pulled out a single folded sheet of paper—his speech would be short . . . because he had no idea what he was going to say.
Just then, Ali returned. “Is that your speech?” she asked brightly.
He nodded and she tipped the paper to see it.
“Oh, dear,” she said, raising her eyebrows at the blank page, but then quickly added, “no worries. I’m sure you’ll think of something!” She kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you after. You got this, Mase!”
Mason watched her go. Then he looked down at the piece of paper in his hand. He’d gotten up early that morning, hoping to jot down some thoughts—thoughts his classmates might find poignant or profound and maybe even funny . . . he’d wanted to keep it light but he’d just stared at the page. Finally, he’d scanned his mom’s bookshelf—the one on which she kept her most favorite books—and there between Anne Lamott and Mary Oliver was her Bible. He’d reached for Anne Lamott’s Help, Thanks, Wow, but his hand had, instead, settled on her Bible—which he knew was stuffed with scribbled quotes and thoughts, and not just Bible verses, but with all the little things she’d jotted down over the years. He’d sat down in her favorite chair, and when he’d opened the cover, an old photo of him taking his first steps had fallen out. He’d seen the photo before but never really studied it, and he had realized he must’ve been walking into her arms because he was laughing and his arms were reaching out. Mason had smiled, absentmindedly flicking the corner of the old photo, but then he’d noticed there was another photo stuck to it. He’d frowned, and as he pried them apart, they made a sticky, scratching sound. He’d stared at the second photo—it was not one he’d seen before—of a girl in a hospital bed with a tiny baby in her arms. Her hair was a golden halo of copper, just like the baby’s. He’d stared at her uncertainly—his mom had taken care of so many babies over the years that it could’ve been anyone, but why had she saved this photo and why was it in her Bible? He had turned it over to see if there was anything written on the back, but it was blank—just like the piece of paper on which he was supposed to be writing down his thoughts! Mason had tucked both photos back between the pages, and turned to the task at hand, leafing through the quotes written in his mom’s careful handwriting.
“Hey, Mason! You comin’?” Joe Cameron called. Mason looked up, realized everyone was in line, quickly folded the paper, tucked it in his pocket, and took his place. “Congrats, man!” Joe said, patting him on the shoulder. “Better you than me!”
Mason smiled. “We’ll see ’bout that.”
The regal sound of Pomp and Circumstance drifted from the gym, and the line began to move. When he walked into the gym, he scanned the front row and spotted his mom sitting in a wheelchair next to Mrs. Harrison. She was wearing her favorite white blouse with a pretty cobalt blue bandanna on her head, and when she saw him, she smiled and gave him a thumbs-up, which he promptly returned.
Mason sat in his seat and only half listened to the speeches before his—those of his principal and their guest speaker (a local author)—because he was still trying to formulate his own thoughts. Finally, he heard his name announced, and he felt Joe elbow him. “Good luck, man!”
Mason stood, and feeling his heart pound like a jackhammer, made his way to the front. He crossed the stage slowly, shaking the hands of the administrators, and then stood resolutely in front of the podium. He pressed his lips together pensively and took in his audience, but when his gaze rested on his mom—and she smiled at him—he felt an odd peace wash over him. He smiled back, his heart swelling with pride because this amazing woman was his mom . . . and he was her son.
“Thank you for your kind welcome,” he began, adjusting the mic and smiling. “As many of you know, this has been a turbulent year for my mom and me, but as difficult as it has been, it is her unending support and encouragement that has me standing up here. She is the fiercest warrior I know.” He looked over and smiled. “Mom, this is for you.”
Laurie Callahan nodded, her eyes glistening as Sue put her arm around her frail shoulders and pulled her close.
“This morning, I got up early with the goal of trying to write down some thoughts so I wouldn’t get myself thoroughly lost up here.” As he said this, he pulled the paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “But this is as far as I got,” he said, holding up the blank page—which made everyone chuckle. “For some reason, not a single thought would come to me—it was kind of like all the blank pages I’ve faced before when I’ve had to write a paper.” He smiled, pausing for more chuckles. “So I began to think about all the times I’ve felt this way—you know, lost and uncertain about what is going to happen . . . about the future—as I’m sure many of you feel today . . . full of trepidation and, in some cases, absolute terror about what the future holds . . . about making the right decisions . . . about getting along with the total stranger some computer algorithm has chosen to be your roommate, or . . . if you’re like me, and not going to college right away, trying to decide which path feels right.” As he said this, he looked at Ali, and she nodded. “So, as I sat in my mom’s chair this morning, thinking about all the times I’ve felt this way over the years, I tried to recall how I’d gotten through them, and I realized that it was my mom who helped me—all the little quips she used
