To celebrate our ten year anniversary, we are inviting back former writers back to tpc in order to hear what they’ve been thinking about since leaving the post calvin. Today, please welcome back Kyric Koning. Kyric graduated in 2013 with degrees in English, writing, and classical studies. He is a curious individual (with a deep fondness for the parenthetical) who haunts the Grand Rapids area and works several jobs, but considers writing his primary one. He enjoys dichotomies, pluralities, and conundrums of all sorts, playing games (all sorts), reading (all fantasy), and observing the world and (all) its inhabitants. If he’s not working or sleeping, he’s probably writing one of his many novels.

A child sits at the window with his mother, watching the sun set. Purple cuddles red, orange cloud fingers pulling close. Here is home. No questions, no concerns, just people coming together for each other.

The child looks up, meeting her gaze. “One day, when we’re older, I’m going to take care of you.”

“That’s very sweet,” she replies, hugging him tighter, “but when you’re older, you’ll be married and have your own family to look after.”

He doesn’t know why, but her words distress him. Does she doubt his capability? His conviction? Determined, he tries again, oozing enthusiasm.

“If I’m not married when I’m older then I’ll take care of you.”

His mother glances at him, her ever-present smile turning indulgent. Perhaps she realizes it is pointless to argue about something so distant with a child. Perhaps she sees something more.

“As you wish,” she says. And with meeting smiles, the promise is sealed.

***

A teen broods in the dark at his childishly small desk. He no longer sits with his mother. His tongue is growing sharp and he tests his limits. Testing her is testing his luck—her fist unerringly strikes injustice and the solar plexus. She must be handled delicately, and he had become practiced at managing her.

She has a lot of rules and is quite upfront about her beliefs, but he doesn’t mind. He’s similar in those regards. It’s the dissimilarities that divide them, day by day, inch by inch. She was uninteresting, simplistic. He suspects she will never understand him, just as he will never quite get her.

It doesn’t bother him, though. She is mother, not friend, not self. She has her role. He has his.

***

A college graduate stands beside his mother, watching his newly wedded older brother dance with his bride. Music glides around them as a thousand tiny reflected lights seek their own partner.

She swats his arm. “You’re next, Bo.”

He smiles indulgently. Her claim is bold, considering he had never been on a date before nor is he known for his social charms. But he doesn’t contradict her. Today is as much hers as her firstborn’s. Today she takes a step closer to her cherished dream of grandchildren.

Truthfully, he wouldn’t mind getting married. He knows the lonely life. The comfort of a partner calls sweetly.

But in his heart, he has sworn another vow—no less sacred, no less inviolable.

***

A young adult runs to work before the world wakes. Mist clings to him, not yet chased away by the sun. His mother’s surgery is today. Today will determine whether cancer claims another soul or whether she will persist.

He is distressed, more distressed than he has ever been. Not just from the circumstances. He is still praying, and knows that whatever the outcome, God’s will will unfold. There his peace is secured.

He doesn’t believe he has been a good son. He hasn’t gotten any closer to his mother, not like he has to his father. Much of her life is a mystery to him—all on account of his choices. She never seemed interesting enough. Or there was always another time.

With the possibility of her being taken, he is torn apart. He should have talked to her more, asked her to teach him to cook, learned more about her childhood, her hopes, her thoughts.

If she lived, he would do better.

***

An adult sits at his computer watching a television show. He almost misses his phone’s screen lighting up, “Mom” prominently displayed.

“Hey mom,” he answers, “how are you?”

“I’m not doing so well.”

She had said that many times over her seven year struggle, but tonight she actually sounded it.

“What can I do for you tonight?”

He doesn’t know this will be their last conversation.

“My favorite memory of you was a child sitting by the window, watching the sunset. You told me you would look after me when we were older. Thank you for coming home every month and calling every week. I really looked forward to and enjoyed those times together. Thank you for always taking good care of your dad and me. We appreciate you.”

His heart shatters as it is filled, a dream dies as it is fulfilled.

Even though it was his whole life, he feels like it should have been longer. That he had finally been robbed, and despite all his wishes he couldn’t give to her what she had to him.

Selfishly, he has liked to tell himself his name is a combination of the Greek words “kyrios” and “kairos,” a “lord of the right moment.” But it is always in the critical moments he falls short.

He keeps the tears from his voice, but not his eyes. “Byn and Dol are here. Do you want to talk to them?”

She does and he passes off his phone. His brothers need her time as well. He recognizes there isn’t much left. A moment to compose himself is necessary. Then he will talk to her again.

But the moment never comes. His brothers hang up before returning his phone. He doesn’t get to say goodbye. He doesn’t get to say “I love you.” He can only hope, “As you wish” truly conveys enough.

***

A mature adult often stares into empty space. Space where his mother was, where she should be, where she is, where she has always been.

He doesn’t know when her memory will strike him. He welcomes them all the same. After all, he is not the same.

He has trouble singing without crying, especially her songs. Movie nights no longer need reminders that she has, in fact, seen the movie before and this has, in fact, happened. Looking at his pillow always cracks a smile.

He wishes he remembered more of her words. Plenty of pictures exist, kept within her carefully chronicled albums. Her maxims and ideologies are beaten into him. Her awful Yoda impression often reverberates in his mind. His room is littered with encouraging notes in her lovely handwriting. But it is conversations, not merely echoes and imprints for which he longs.

One thing he does know. One thing has become clear. She has changed him.

He could be her legacy.

***

An old man lies in bed, watching out his window for the sun to rise. Frost climbing the glass pane flames gold as the sun reaches it. The light will reach him soon.

The silence and stillness soothes him. The aches and pains of the ages almost are memories.

He doesn’t know how much time he has left. But his moment is coming.

Finally, the sun’s rays caress his cheek with their warm touch. His eyes flutter, focus above. Each breath becomes more difficult, more necessary.

“Mother.”

The word lifts the corners of his mouth.

“I never forgot.”

In cherished memory of Laurie Koning (September 1962–August 2023), she who is sun and spring, who is home’s teacher, zeal’s harmony, and hospitality’s hands. Thrifter, Baker, Preserver, Believer, Gifter.

Ever loving,

Ever loved,

Ever like a child.

Kyric Koning

Kyric Koning graduated in 2013 with degrees in English, writing, and classical studies. He is a curious individual (with a deep fondness for the parenthetical) who haunts the Grand Rapids area and works several jobs, but considers writing his primary one. He enjoys dichotomies, pluralities, and conundrums of all sorts, playing games (all sorts), reading (all fantasy), and observing the world and (all) its inhabitants. If he’s not working or sleeping, he’s probably writing one of his many novels.