From a long time ago, but perfect for this night... The boys are men now, and it's been a long time since we have had news about this child. Countless kids are sleeping on the streets tonight. 
It was St. Patrick’s Day evening in New Jersey and the night was cold. There was a foot of snow on the ground and the prediction was for more that evening. Unseasonably cold winter with wind chills in the minuses at night; the usual pattern of a light snow and warm days had been replaced by snowy days and artic nights since January.
Sick of being cold and determined to celebrate spring, I planned a family meal for St. Patrick’s Day. After work, I lugged in the makings for the typical Irish meal and began peeling carrots and potatoes. Brisket in the oven, Irish soda bread rising, the house lost its empty chill.
At six o’clock, I was still the only one home. I rambled around the empty house: did a load of laundry, changed the sheets, and picked up the leftover Sunday Trenton Times from the sofa. I turned on all the lights in the living room and lit the candles. Still nobody home but me. I checked the calendar in the kitchen, but the kid’s work schedule wasn’t on it – again! Exasperated, I puffed out my cheeks and huffed, turned down the oven, and checked the brisket. It was ready for the potatoes and carrots so I dumped them in and put the lid back on tight.
I set the table for two, expecting the kid to show up too late for supper, if at all. Since he turned seventeen, worked nights, and had his own car, it was rare for him to join us at mealtime. At least there’d be leftovers for the next week… corn beef sandwiches, hot Irish stew, and plenty of homemade bread for toast. I wouldn’t have to cook again for a couple of days.
Seven ten and still no spouse. He must be stuck on a nasty software problem and lost track of time again, I thought. I turned the oven down some more and added a little broth to the brisket so it wouldn’t dry out.
I heard ‘The Horde’ outside the door before it even opened, scuffing their feet, knocking the loose snow off shoes. The kid was home and he wasn’t alone. He rarely was anymore. I knew Mike, George, and Sam were with him. They were always with him if he wasn’t working, and sometimes, they’d have a stray or two tagging along, and even occasionally, a couple of girls. I never asked how they all got here, not wanting to know how many kids my own kid was cramming into his car. I heard my husband’s voice as well as the door opened and they flooded the quiet house.
“Something smells good,” the Kid said.
“Hi, Mrs. M,” The Horde greeted me, all talking at once, trying to tell me about how the Kid was supposed to work tonight, but there was nobody at the movies so the manager sent him home. The empty house was flooded with noise instantly, chasing away the winter darkness from the corner of the rooms.
The love of my life greeted me with a hug, a kiss, and an apology for being late. He had remembered it was St. Patrick’s Day and stopped to bring home some spring flowers for the table.
No one had eaten, so I shoved more plates around the table, and the Kid dragged in chairs. The Horde was high spirited, laughing and teasing, filling their plates with seconds, punching each other in the arms, showing off for the girls. The newest stray was abnormally quiet and the polar opposite of my Kid, with dark brooding eyes and long stringy black hair. They were the same build and height, but it was like looking at a negative of my son. Dressed in layers of well-worn black clothes that matched his sad eyes, he was uncomfortable and unsure of himself. He nodded hello and looked down at his plate, afraid to meet our eyes, silent. Nothing went on his plate except a few carrots and a potato or two.
The Horde talked over him as if he didn’t exist. He’d pass the vegetables or bread when asked, but didn't take part in the conversations and nonsense around him. I laughed to myself at the extreme differences between the two boys whose names followed one another in the New Testament. I wondered if anyone else noticed how dissimilar they were.
When nothing left behind but a few crumbs, the usual response to an invasion of The Horde, they tromped downstairs to the Kid’s basement room. The sounds of guitars, video games, and whoops of joy drifted upstairs. My husband and I cleaned up the mess from the meal, started the dishwasher, and settled on the sofa to catch up on the day’s news.
“I can’t believe you just fed seven extra kids as if you’d planned for them to be here,” he said, putting his arm around me.
I snuggled in, enjoying his warmth, and shrugged. “I can’t cook for three. I’ve never figured it out.”
He laughed knowing it was true. I learned as a young teenager to cook for eight, and even all these years later, I cook for eight. There are some things I can cook for two or three, but not the big meals, not spaghetti and meatballs, or corn beef, or roasts, or casseroles.
I’d been feeding the Horde for a couple years and they never got used to it. Mike lived with his father and his father’s girlfriend. On paydays, his father left money for food on the counter and he expected Mike to make it last. George’s mom died a year ago and the brothers were still figuring out how to make the household run so meals were scarce there as well. I fed both teens frequently and they were always thankful. It didn’t matter what I cooked, they ate it, unlike my own picky child (no mayonnaise, no sour cream, no mushrooms, no onions, no tomatoes, no whip cream, and no---). My kid’s list of things he didn’t eat was endless, and I indulged him, often making him a separate meal.
"You spoil him," his dad complained, but I didn’t mind. I liked having him around at mealtimes, and wanted him to enjoy them, so I made what he liked. It was simple old fashion bribery.
Upstairs, we put in a movie and snuggled in for the evening, the noise from the basement not bothering either of us. The kids left about ten since it was school night, and the Kid drove Mike and George home. It was too cold for them to walk the mile and half and I was grateful he could finally drive so I wouldn’t have to leave my warm house to do it.
He arrived back home but didn’t go straight to his room after emptying the cookie jar and milk carton. He stood in front of us, restless, searching for words, biting his lip.
“Spit it out,” his dad said.
“It’s really cold outside,” the Kid began, “and it’s supposed to be below zero tonight again.”
“Yes,” his dad agreed. “The wind chill will make it feel like 20 below tonight.” I wondered where we were going with this conversation about the weather.
“You wouldn’t want me sleeping outside in my car tonight, would you?” His usually calm blue eyes were anxious, and he ran his hand through his summer blond hair.
“No,” I said, “but you have a warm room and a bed downstairs.”
“Well, you know…” he stopped, shoved his hands deep in his jeans pockets and rocked a bit, ill-at-ease.
I was expecting to hear that Mike was locked out again or that George had a fight with his big brother and needed a place to stay until things calmed down. But those were common occurrences and other than it being a school night, he wouldn’t be nervous about asking. Sometimes, they spent the night and I didn’t even know until morning when they were eating Cheerios in the dining room.
“I wouldn’t ask this, because I don’t know him very well, and you just met him, but that guy, Mark? He’s homeless right now and I didn’t want him sleeping on the streets in Princeton tonight. It’s too cold.” He blurted it out without pausing. He wasn’t the kind of kid who brought home stray animals and the stray friends his group encompassed were rarely strangers. It was an odd request for him, and he wasn’t comfortable asking it.
I looked at his dad and his dad looked at me.
“There are homeless people sleeping on the streets in Princeton?” I asked, utterly amazed. I worked in Trenton and had gotten fairly jaded about the homeless over the years. There are plenty of resources available and most who sleep on the streets chose to be there instead of in a shelter with rules and regulations. I'd never seen a homeless person in Princeton in all the years we'd shopped there.
“Mom!” The Kid cried in protest. “Does it matter where he’s homeless at? It’s cold tonight.”
“Where are his parents?” His dad asked the practical questions.
“He says they kicked him out,” The Kid's voice expressed his uncertainty of the truth of that statement.
“How long have you known him?” his dad asked, as if we planned to say no. There was no doubt in either of us that the new kid was staying. He didn’t even need to check with me for confirmation.
The Kid shrugged. “I met him tonight. He’s a friend of Julie’s. I might have met him at her New Year’s Eve party. She says I did, but I don’t remember. But I went over the house rules and he says he can live by them.”
His dad nodded, “Tell him to come in so we can talk to him about this.”
The Kid opened the door and motioned the teen into the house. The stray was wearing just a black hoodie and shivering. He tried to hide how cold he was from us, but I noticed. The bottoms of his black jeans were ragged and his sweater hung underneath his hoodie, unraveling. He was skinnier than I thought at dinner, and the dark circles under his eyes made his eyes even darker. Restless and scared, he stood before us, shifting his feet, unable to find a stance that was comfortable. I wanted to push up his sleeves and check for track marks. I wanted to wash his face as if he was seven and had fallen off his bicycle. I wanted to engulf him in my arms and promise him that would be all right, but I just watched him carefully while the Kid’s dad ran through the house rules.
He nodded, unable to speak.
“There’s one more rule we have for runaways,” The love of my life said. “We need to talk to your parents tomorrow and tell them where you are. That doesn’t mean that you have to go home to them or that we’re asking you to leave, but we would want to know our kid is safe and we owe your parents that much. Is that a problem?’
He shook his head no, and mumbled, “I can stay then?”
We nodded. “You can stay tonight. If you decide you want to stay longer, we’ll talk about it later.”
It seemed natural for him to arrive on St. Patrick’s Day, the saint who chased away the snakes in Ireland, this child of the night and cold.
We are going to NYC to see Van Ness perform live in a few weeks! 
remain at the very top of the list. Rain I'll probably NEVER see live. His concert tickets are too high, and I didn't think I'd see Van Ness perform live because he doesn't do that in the states very often. 
so I give you something from 2006.. bc I can! 
And I'm still not writing Wren's story... not yet!
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