The Promise

     There is always light. It was his mother's favorite statement, her daily observation, her proclamation, her promise. He knew that, remembered it, even smiled at how annoying that daily, cheerful sentence could be when disappointment, loss, rejection was pulling him into the abyss his spirit seemed to favor.

    Maybe she knew that about him, the woman who had known him the longest, and who, he would admit only to himself, loved him the most. He'd have to agree that sometimes there was light, light to show the way, to illumine the potential, the hope, the promise, etc., etc., etc....but always?

    He called her Pollyanna when he was 17 and had just learned that word, the designation, the criticism of the perennial optimist. He'd been upset about...about...well, something, and she had said in the bright voice she'd perfected, "Well, tomorrow is another day, and there is always...."

    He'd stalked out before she could finish, maybe even slammed a door, which was made worse by the peal of laughter that followed him, that she knew he would hear.

    Well, it turned out she was right. All these years later, long after the weekly calls, the seasonal visits, long after the monthly letter in her perfect Palmer Method hand, long after she'd turned out the light and gone to her last good night, it turned out she was right.

    It was that promise, her promise, her words, that drew him to the window each morning. Eighty years old, alone, with a knee he couldn't depend on, hearing gone to hell, but his mother's words drew him to the window just as the sun rose and every day, winter, spring, summer, fall, there was light, always light--a new day beginning, and he was grateful.

    There is always light.