I have a scar on my left index finger. I got it in high school, in a class called Technology. In retrospect the name is ironic, as we didn’t use anything that resembled technology.
I was carving something out of clay. We were using a metal tool shaped almost like a spoon with sharper edges. I turned to talk to my friend Ruth, and it slipped and caught my finger.
You can hardly see the scar now. But every now and again I find myself rubbing it absentmindedly.
Tonight, I sit at my desk. The evening sunlight dances across the floor. I am in a mood I can’t describe – equal parts pensive and happy.
My husband and I have five kids. Our second son is diagnosed with autism. His name is Jack.
Jack is twenty. He is doing well. You might even say he is thriving. He is moving from a full-time residential program to an apartment, where he will continue to be supported with coaching and activities. He is tentatively building a life of his own.
I am happy.
At the same time, I am thinking of a post I just read online, declaring autism is a gift.
Autism is not a gift. To say so is a disservice to advocates, to siblings, to the very people like Jack who work for what comes easily to most.
Even now, many things seem out of his reach. Financial independence. A driver’s license. Fatherhood.
He is vulnerable, and often misunderstood.
In moments like this, I desperately long for a crystal ball to see how this all turns out.
Will autism repeat itself again, a duplicate strand of DNA showing up once more?
Will someone hurt him? Take advantage of him? Break his heart?
Will he live alone forever?
What will happen when I die?
I don’t know what the future holds.
Sometimes, I make my own version. I imagine a day where everything is clear.
This is the day I think of when I hunger for more.
A made-up day.
Or is it?
Early June.
Joe and I sit on the front porch.
Through the window you can see a calendar hanging in the kitchen. The year reads 2054.
I look over at this man. I smile.
Father’s Day. His favorite dessert sits in the refrigerator – the lemon tart I’ve been making since we were in college from a recipe I clipped out of a magazine.
He takes my hand.
“They’re here,” he says.
One by one, cars pull into the driveway.
A mismatched jumble of people spill out onto the grass. Sullen teenagers, chubby toddlers, son and daughter in-laws.
Kids.
Grandkids.
Another car approaches. Self-driving, it shuts off on his own. He steps out into the sunlight. At nearly fifty, silver threads his once-dark hair.
They circle him, like petals around the heart of a flower.
This is family.
Sharp edges, scars that heal, made-up stories to get through the day.
Timeworn recipes of lemon, of heartache, of worry and hope.
A small boy walks over to the car.
In his young face, I see the smile of my children. I see their youth. I think of Star Wars pajamas, of childhood, of birds gone free in the sky.
He reaches out a hand.
What you don’t know can tell you everything.
“Uncle Jack! We have the same name.”
Jack.
Jack.
He is the gift.
My son.
My sun.
Once again I am in awe of your writing. I read your posts to my mother, who also loves your style of writing. Takes us right there with you. My mother, like me, find your voice to be soothing. And the way your put your hand on your heart has made me start to do the same. You are much much more than a parent and an advocate for a Forever Child, you help so many people who are going through issues in their lives, make them feel not alone. You go momma!
Goose bumps and maybe a little tear trying to sneak out. I could see your vision. Beautiful.