Dorothy said

Thomas Wolfe wrote You Can't Go Home Again, I'm sure I don't agree with this book's title rather I'd say you can go home again but there no guarantee that everything will be as u left it.  

I arrived home last Thursday with the intention of surprising the mothers in my family on mother's day.  I was going to lay low until the Mother's Day celebration at Harlem Chappell's brownstone on Saturday.  We were celebrating a day earlier because...well I don't really know why we were, but we were.  The intention was to just show up on my motorcycle around 630pm at the HCs (Harlem Chappells) and be the mother's day gift for my mom home safe and sounds after a month on the road.  This was the intent but first I had to get into my building without bumping into any of the Bronx Chappells (BCs).  This was going to be tricky since my sister and her kids live in the building directly across the courtyard from me and if they saw my lights on they'd know I was home.  I'd cross that bridge when I get to it.  First I just had to get into the building.  

I parked my bike in its space and took in the neighborhood that I have lived in since I was 15.  It was good seeing all the familiar sights and people.  I was tempted to stop at the pizza shop and get a slice, but I was loaded down with knapsack, duffle bag and helmets.  

I buzzed myself into my building, avoiding any BCs, picked up the mail that my sister didn't get that day and walked to the elevator.  As I waited for the elevator I noticed that there was a card taped to the wall next to the elevator button.  I read the card and my heart sank.  Michael the seven year old on my floor has passed away and his parents were thanking the building for there thoughts and prayers.  I remember meeting Michael five years earlier as I waited on my floor for the elevator one morning.  He and his mom were already there as I walked up.  He was in a specially designed stroller and it was clear that he was physically and mentally challenged.  This didn't stop him from smiling at me that first day however.  I introduced myself to him and his mom told me that his name was Michael.  I told him that I have a brother with the same name.  I short conversation yes, but one that I remember.  In the five years that I've lived in my building I've had many such conversations with Michael and his mom.  I've watched him grow bigger and strong over the years and introduced him to my nephew Chance when their paths crossed.   It's really hard reconciling that I won't have these small talks with Michael anymore.  

A day after coming home I saw his parents.  Clearly they were still hurting and mourning their loss.  They told me that when Michael went to sleep that night he was very happy and nothing was amiss.  Next morning when they went to get him he wouldn't wake up.  He had passed away in his sleep without a sound very peacefully.  My conversation buddy was gone.  I was sad.  

All of this weighed on me that first day back in NYC.  My heart went out to Michael's parents while my thoughts turned to my mother who still worries about her 45 year old son like he was some wet behind the ears newbie in the world.  I knew that she and the rest of the family were worried about me traveling by motorcycle on my journey south and back so I figured I'd let them know that I was home safe and sound.  

I thought that my mom would notice that I was calling from my home phone but she didn't.  We had a long conversation before I told her that I was home.  Her response was "now I can stop worrying."  This confirmed for me that I had done the right thing.  Tom Wolfe eat your heart out, Dorothy said it best "there's no place like home." 

- Wil