By Abe Villarreal
At the age of 18, I was ready to get out of town. Growing up in a small town can have its drawbacks; at least that's what you think at the age of 18.
Even before that age, I had my own mailbox. I would walk down to the local beverage house, a place most teenagers don't enter. The store had a corner where you could rent a mailbox. I was still in high school, and still living at home, but I had my own mailbox.
Sometimes these small things in life give you a great sense of freedom. So I would walk down to that beverage house and check my mail every day. It was the first step to adulthood.
I'm sure mom and dad found it curious, even weird. I found it liberating. Sure, I didn't get any important mail and not too long after registering my unit, the used car dealers and credit card companies found out. Junk mail began filling my little corner of the beverage house. At 18 years old, you don't mind junk mail. It means someone noticed you.
I grew up in Douglas, Arizona, a small community on the Mexican-American border. The kind that was small enough for everyone to know your business, and to care about it.
After graduating high school, it was time to move up in life, up from having my own mailbox to moving into my own dorm, and creating my own path. I always had an independent spirit, but just recently I found out how much I needed those people we all want to leave once we become official adults.
It took me 16 years to realize that a week with mom was the remedy to cure all of life's worries. Mom visited during spring break, and everything became familiar all over again. The house felt cleaner, the dining room, a little cozier. Smells of favorite foods filled the kitchen, and things I never knew I needed found their way into my life.
After a week, she said her goodbyes, and that Sunday afternoon, life became quieter. The house became empty. Something was missing, and that something was mom.
We live in a time where admitting weaknesses, or opportunities for help, is out of fashion. We should be able to figure things out, and if we can't, there's Google.
When mom was home, nothing needed figuring out; she was there. Broken things became fixed. What I thought was clean, became cleaner. What I though was tasty when I made it, became tastier.
When I thought life was good, she showed me that it could be so much better.
Time passes quickly, and only 16 years from the time I felt I could conquer the world, came a moment, a brief, one-week moment in time, where I knew that I was missing the cape I needed to fly.
Life has its many challenges, and when you need someone to turn to, your mom doesn't always seem like the first option. You don't want to bother her. She has enough to worry and think about.
The truth is, she's waiting for your call. Thank you, mom.
Abe Villarreal is the Director of Communications at Western New Mexico University. When not on campus, he enjoys writing about his observations on marketing, life, people and American traditions.