His car lights shined through the windows. Loud music could be heard but not made out. Just rambling voices and screeching guitars; an ongoing drum beat.

The boy had not been home for days. He had a tendency to leave in the middle of the night when all in the neighborhood were asleep. All except mom, who sat on the edge of her bed counting rosary beads. She prayed to Mary and Jesus for her son. Prayers never seemed answered.

She sat in the kitchen when he came in. Asked him where he’d been? The kid told her not to worry about it. Said it was none of her business. Told her he was going to bed. Stayed in his room for days. Listening to music, talking on the phone, plotting. Soon, he’d be gone again. Just like his dad. He’d leave in the middle of the night as well. Till one time, he never came back.

Mom would get down picture albums of the kid and look at them for hours. All the way from birth up to sixteen, she had photos of the boy. Pictures from past vacations on the coast of Maine. Instant pics of him holding fish caught in lakes and rivers. A shot of the teen shooting a rifle in the backyard, his father giving instructions. She sipped her coffee and cried.

And one night, she’d heard the door shut and the Ford start. Momma ran to the window to see the car backing out of the driveway. Music blasting, her holding onto prayers and letting go. He was gone this time for good. She knew it. The beads were placed in a drawer.