THE ART OF HOLDING YOURSELF TOGETHER

Ozzie surprising his mother by coming home after five years of traveling

SECTION ONE

Ozzie flung his long hair over his shoulder as he dug in his pocket looking for the house key to his mother’s home. “Son of a bitch.” He mumbled as his fingers were fumbling the keys and his baggage was growing heavier by the moment. He hadn’t used that key in so many years. He flipped to the old silver key and pushed it into the keyhole, turned and unlocked the door. He shuffled his bags in his arms and pushed into his childhood home. Home, that was a weird concept after five years of jumping around.

He flipped the light of the living room on and looked at the subtle changes of the room that his mother had made since he left at nineteen for Italy. It wasn’t too late yet, only about ten so his mother may have still been awake. He shook the snow off his shoulders and slid his coat off after resting his bags by the door. He heard some cautious footsteps approaching, he smiled, eager to see his mother. Her ears and eyes peeked around the corner of the wall at him, looking shocked to see a hairy dark young stallion beaming ear to ear at her.

“Get out before I call police.” She said shakily.

“Mom, it’s me!” Ozzie belted out in laughter. She stepped away from her hiding place by the wall and put her guard down, leaving her broom leaned against her post. She immediately teared up at the sound of his laughing voice and she came to him with open arms. She hugged him tightly and cried into his shirt as he rubbed her shoulder warmly.

“What happened to you? You look like a damn thug.” She said wiping her tears and looking up to him after a few moments. “What are these holes in your face, Osmond?” She asked with her brows scrunched. He smiled and shook his head, his dimples puckered as he took his hat off and shook the snow off and placed it over his suitcase. “My god, look at your hair.” She said in her little Italian accent. It was very damaged and was threaded with beads and snarled braids.

“This is nice, I like this.” She smiled after shaking her head and stroking his full goatee. He smiled again looking at her eyes, researching her new son, he grabbed her hands and kissed them.

“I missed you.” He laughed.

“Well, I’m glad you’re home. Go take a shower, are you hungry? Why didn’t you tell me you were on the way home?” she said in a jumble of emotion.

“I wanted to surprise you.” He chuckled taking his shoes off. “I could eat, what do you have?” he asked as they walked further into the warmth of his childhood home. The smell of his mothers house was so welcoming and warming to his heart., He headed for the restroom as she parted to the kitchen. She warmed up some leftovers for him to eat, it was weird that she might be cooking for two again so suddenly. She kept his plate warm and made him a cup of chamomile tea as the shower water in the bathroom rattled the pipes through the wall. He came out about ten minutes later in jogging pants and pulling a white tee shirt over his chiseled chest plastered in tattoos.

“Osmond.” His mother said with a stern look on her face. He just smiled at her, waiting to hear all about it. She pushed his plate and cup to him at the counter bar, she grabbed his hands and turned them back and forth, looking at all of his new body art. “There’s not much space left.” She said looking up at him before getting a spoon for him.

“I still have some room.” He chuckled to her. He pulled his sleeves up to show his bare uninked shoulders. He pulled the pant leg of his jogging pants up and showed her the spaces he had left on his calves. She sighed and shook her head with a smile.

“Where did you leave my son?” she laughed after he started to spoon soup to his lips.

“A little here, a little there.” He said flicking his icy eyes up to hers with a smile.

“Do you have pictures, I want to see.” She grinned leaned on the counter. He nodded his head as he chewed the chunky soup, he sprang up from the bar stool and rummaged in his tattered up bag. He pulled out a black photo box and sat it on the counter. He pulled a pocket knife from his cargos and slashed the tape from the lid. He pushed the box to her and took the lid off.

“Wait…” he said as she started grabbing a chunk to start with. He eyed the box carefully and thumbed out a handful of about ten photos with red pen marks on the side. “I don’t think you’ll want to see those ones.” He laughed placing them face down on the counter in front of him.

“Oh, little keepsakes, huh?” she smiled up from the photos from the start of his trip.

“Yeah, something like that.” Ozzie chuckled as she shook her head at him with a smile.

“Do they find all of that metal in your face attractive over there? And all of your colors?” she said flipping through the photos of her son five years ago in Italy. That was the Ozzie she remembered, one colored skin, short hair, and just his ears pierced.

“There’s some pictures of all of the art I sold while I was gone too. Thought you’d appreciate those.” ignoring her question, sort of getting tired of her criticism. He picked up his tea and swirled the teabag around before taking a few sips. He lifted his spoon from his soup back up and it clinked against his tongue ring and made some soft scrapes.





“Oh! I loved this restaurant as a girl!” his mother said showing him the photo.

“I know. I worked there for a little bit.” He grinned. She looked at the next few photos. “I’ll have to make some food for you sometime, see if it still tastes the same.”

“I would love that.” She beamed.

Ozzie made comments on some of the photos that his mother went through, told her names of all of his friends. Coulette, the mime from France, Zeppoli his boss from the restaurant in Italy, his Zebra friends from his short time in Africa, his drinking buddies while he was in Germany.