Chasing Clouds

The restaurant is busy.

My son Jack.

Next to his father, he orders a pilsner.

He stumbles over the word. Carefully, he takes out his wallet. He hands you his ID.

You glance at him. Your gaze lingers for a beat.

It happens a lot. People often glance at him. They don’t know what to make of his movements, his downcast eyes, his curtailed speech.

I hold my breath, like I’ve done one thousand times before.

The time the doctor said the words Autism Spectrum Disorder so many years ago.

The morning he rode the bus for the first time.

The long afternoons when I waited for the school to call to tell me all that went wrong.

The day we dropped him off in this very city at a college program.

Through it all, I have held my breath.

And now, on his 21^st birthday, his first drink. He longs to enjoy this typical milestone. As reluctant as I initially was, I am swept up in his enthusiasm.

Across the table, I exchange glances with my husband Joe. My mind begins to race.

Why didn’t I think to check and make sure a government ID is enough to order alcohol?

It should be. It lists his birthday. It has his picture. Still, my stomach tightens.

Do you see what I see? The eyes of a young boy wrapped inside the body of a young man.

You look at the ID. You look back at him. Your eyes narrow. I hear the girl at the table next to us giggle.

You seem rushed. Maybe you’re having a bad day. Maybe you were late to work, or you didn’t feel like coming in at all.

I have to anticipate what everything is thinking. I hate this.

Yet so often, we are at the mercy of others. Their goodwill. Their moods.

Today, my son is twenty-one.

We picked him up a half hour ago. He was standing outside of his apartment. He clutched an umbrella in his hands. He was wearing the pants I bought him. My heart squeezed at it all.

I wanted tonight to be perfect. Now, at this table, I feel it all slipping away.

For as long as I can remember, I wanted a crystal ball to see the future.

There was a time I thought this boy may sit in our house forever—an exotic bird in a gilded cage of his own choosing.

Now, he lives hundreds of miles from home, in a community with other kids like him.

This boy of mine.

He is a constant surprise.

Life alongside autism.

Again and again, I long to curl inward.

Instead, I force myself to listen for birds gone free against the sky.

Their wings are like a song. They change the course of clouds with their dance.

Can you hear them?

Please, hear them.

Hear him.

He is rain, he is the umbrella, he is the music.

Your face softens.

“Well, young man, happy birthday! It’s a big one!”

Thank you.

Thank you.

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