To Max at the Dickson DMV

The place is packed, and we’re all queued up for our REAL IDs. Bruce and I made our appointment months ago, in a county outside Nashville, because that seemed like the fastest way to beat the May deadline.

Three younger guys come through the doors, bringing with them an easy, contagious energy. They’re laughing, playing off each other’s jokes. Bruce and I are quietly leaning against a wall, and one of the guy’s glances over. He thinks we might be the end of the line and asks, “Are you all waiting?”

I nod and explain we are, but we’re not the end. I point him in the right direction.

He flashes me a smile. His glasses have slipped a little off his nose, and his long, dark hair grazes his shoulders. His locks are full and a little unkept and his zipper hoodie and jeans smell like Downey fabric softener when he passes.

He rejoins his friends, and they keep going, still in rhythm.

I can only see his back now. Everything about him is a call back to my son, Max. The politeness. The hair. The glasses. The smile. The way he’s dressed.

My Max has been gone 7 1/2 years. I used to look for him in crowds and would think I saw a glimpse or a glimmer. For so many of those first few years, I would hope. And pray. Perhaps there had been a mistake. Perhaps he had been alive, somewhere, all along.

But today, I’m not really thinking about Max at all. I haven’t been looking for him in the DMV waiting room.

And still, there he is. With his back to me.

I say nothing to Bruce. Gone are the days when I would nudge him and point and hope that he would see what I was seeing.

I am finally called and complete the requirements to get my new license. Bruce is already done and waiting outside.

But I can’t leave—not just yet. I need to see the young man’s face one more time. I need to say something.

“Hey,” I say, approaching. “I don’t mean to creep you out, but can I ask you a question?”

He casts a sideward glance to his friends, but he laughs and agrees he will answer my not-creepy creepy question.

“Is your name Max?”

He laughs. “Yeah. It is.”

I tell him that my son, too, is named Max and he looks a lot like him. I don’t tell him Max is dead. That would be the creepy part.

I believe the universe gives us gifts and signs and reminders of what we have lost and reminders that those we have loved are never fully gone. Sometimes we just have to remember to look.

To the Max at the Dickson DMV:

Thank you for the smile.

Megan Barry