I fell asleep on the sofa watching the final miles of the Tour de France.

I was awakened by screaming soccer fans and rap music blasting on my son’s cell phone.  I didn’t scold him like I usually do when he wakes me up with his inconsiderate, noisy movements.

Instead,  I simply looked at him in bewilderment, wondering why had he turned on every light downstairs.

I did not yell because I was filled with a renewed sense of gratitude after sadly watching Sybrina Fulton on CNN earlier in the day hold back her tears on the witness stand as she told the jury the name of her child, “Trayvon Benjamin Martin….he’s in heaven.”

So, at that moment, it did not matter that the teenager proceeded to ask me questions knowing that I was in a delirious state of mind. Even the fact that he did not say,”Mom, sorry for waking you up,” did not anger me as much.  I was thankful that he was here, breathing, alive.

I finally pulled myself off of the sofa to head for bed.  Before I went upstairs, I looked at my son positioned in front of the mirror. I thanked God for him and his teenage woes.

I turned off all of the lights except the one in the dining room so that he could stand and admire his reflection as long as he liked.

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