The River Sang Wild

There is a buzz of excitement in the air.

Families file into the gymnasium. The seats begin to fill.

Graduation.

The threat of thunderstorms has moved the ceremony inside.

On my right, my husband Joe. His hair more white than dark.

To my left, our four sons.

I glance down the row at them.

I remember how, at one point or another, they each felt lost to me.

And then, somehow, I found them again.

My gaze lingers for a moment on the tallest. He rubs his hand together in a gesture that is as familiar to me as my own heartbeat. He fidgets in his seat.

Jack.

Jack-attack.

Jack-a-boo.

Autism.

I feel my shoulders tense. I hope we can get him through the next two hours. My nervous system is perpetually intertwined with his.

Or is it?

He’s never willingly come here, to the school on the hill. The shame has always overpowered him. That’s what I assume, anyway. He never had the words to tell me.

Reflexively, I think of sixth grade.

The river sang wild that year.

It rumbled beneath the bridge I crossed. Every morning, I’d open my window and feel the rush in my ears. Chaotic notes of water filled the air.

By the afternoon, I’d forget the bridge, the notes. I’d walk past the carpool line, my head hung low. Another meltdown, another bad day where books flew through the air and shouts echoed down the hallway.

Like knots on a rope, the bad days added up to another school, a different placement.

Today, it is her turn.

Rose.

Or Roses, as her father calls her.

Since she was a tiny girl, she’s had a deep connection to her brother Jack. Like the proverbial canary in the mine, she perpetually tests the air quality around her.

I can tell, as he approaches adulthood, the weight is growing heavier. I long to tell her to set it down, but I know she won’t. Sisterhood is built into her DNA the same way autism is built into his.

I never meant for her to carry it in the first place. Somehow, when no one was looking, she slipped her shoulders beneath it.

In two months, she will pack up her things, and leave for college.

Summer. A month of new beginnings, surprise rainstorms, tender green leaves fighting for space.

For me, this season, loss gnaws gently within my heart.

She is the quietest of our five kids. Still, there are signs of her all around.

A stool in the kitchen, always pulled slightly away from the counter. Spoons and cups on the bookshelf by her bed, earrings on a wooden tray.

Five years later, I still make the same tracks over the bridge, while he makes new tracks elsewhere. A supported community in a small city.

The day we dropped him off, she stood quietly to one side of the parking lot. Holding her elbows close, tears streamed down her face.

The river is quieter now.

Or maybe I just don’t hear it anymore.

The band begins to play. I reach for Joe’s hand.

We stand. He sees her first.

“Mom, look. There she is. There’s Rose.”

Our songbird. Poised for flight all her own.

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