Mom sees her son through new eyes | members only access

We were pilgrims, and the trip grew from that simplified pursuit: a new bed every night, a new round of coffee and croissants in the morning, a new bout of route-finding, and then a long and

thoughtful time amid barrels and distilling equipment, sipping and talking. What did we like? What was delicious? What should we each buy? More bottles went into the trunk of our rented

Renault, and then another journey to find our next hotel, a walk to the beach, a swim, a dinner, more rum. Domaine Saint-Aubin, a former plantation house turned hotel on the coast of

Martinique. Photo by Tracey Minkin Every day was novel, with the landscapes rolling slowly past — the bright yellows of banana fields, the black sands of volcanic beaches, the cheery pink of

a plantation house belying its legacy of enslavement. Martinique showed itself to us, but we tasted it as well, the essences of each field of grassy cane, as pronounced in its rum as the

terroir woven into a sauvignon blanc. On our first day, Adrian bought a box of white _rhum agricole_ — the unaged version of the spirit that locals use in the island’s famed Ti’ Punch — plus

a bottle of simple syrup, a half dozen limes and a _bois lélé,_ a spidery wooden swizzle stick that, when rubbed between the palms, blends and lightly aerates a cocktail. Every night, he’d

set up a bar on whatever small table we had in our room, mix up a pair of Ti’ Punches, then deal us a hand of gin rummy. Cocktails and a childhood game. It was adult, nostalgic, easy and an

ideal way to wind down from the day. Why didn’t I think of this? SEEING THINGS DIFFERENTLY As the days on Martinique spool out with Adrian calling the shots, I realize how this way of being

in the world is very much a part of who my son has become. That he learns and considers by being and doing. That for him, the action holds the key. And by putting him in charge of our trip,

I’ve begun a new journey of looking at things more like he does. And this signals that it’s time for me to admire and see him as, finally, movingly, no longer mine. Of me, yes. But not mine.

Loosening that knot can be hard on a mother, but it’s a beautiful liberation. In that dusty, humid moment in the Rhum J.M parking lot, “Let’s check it out” is his gentle hand on my back,

not the other way around. And so, on that fourth day of a pilgrim’s journey, at our fourth distillery in as many days, I follow my son from the hot sun to the river’s shade. We slide out of

our sandals and pick our way out to a shallow spot in icy water pouring from a volcano. Adrian is right. The air conditioning, the marvelous rums, the conversation can all wait. As we stand

in the cool embrace of a West Indies jungle, quiet, just us, here is the moment that matters.