Because of a Boy

Because of a boy, I know things.

I kind of wish I didn’t.

But I do.

I know unconditional love it not easy love.

Oh, it is not.

Unconditional love is gritty, hold-your-head-in-your-hands hard.

It is determined.

It is raw.

It is a choice.

 

Because of a boy, I know

that being alone is not the same

as being lonely.

Right now, I am alone.

But I am not lonely.

I am sitting, typing, thinking, reading.

Yet in a giant crowd

laughing, talking, head-nodding,

I can be lonely.

 

Alone.

Lonely.

 

Because of a boy,

I know a life different from my own

is not a life less lived.

This is not exactly true.

I do not know this.

I am trying to know this.

Every day, I remind myself.

A life without college-marriage-kids-retirement

is still important, and meaningful.

It still has tremendous value

and a different kind of joy.

 

Joy.

Value.

Joy.

Joy.

 

My joy is seafood-yoga-laughter-books.

His joy is movies-baking-quiet-music.

I like movies.

But I don’t like to bake.

I love quiet.

 

Some days, it feels like

I hardly know him.

 

Yet I know his heartbeat better than I know my own.

 

Because of this boy,

I know there is a reason for medication.

I know the sound of the

white lid click-click-clicking.

Pills shaken into an upturned palm.

Alleviating—no, lessening

anxiety’s cruel burden.

 

Because of a boy,

I stay in my lane.

Head down,

one foot in front of the other.

I don’t look up.

I don’t look around.

I don’t judge.

 

The tantrum in the parking lot,

the headphones at the table,

the wan, strained smile.

I have been there before.

I will be there again.

 

I know if compassion is a house you build,

then storytelling is the key to the front door.

 

It is the entrance to the rooms and the hallway and the kitchen.

It is the only way to open the windows,

and bring in the light.

 

And so I tell our story.

I offer it to you,

the light and the dark.

The good and the bad.

The chocolate chip cookies and the screaming and the little white pills.

Some days, my story is all I have to give.

 

I know defeat.

I know despair.

I know distance from my own child.

I know what it’s like to beg for a hug.

And long for connection.

Every single day,

I wish it was easier to know him.

Still, I have learned over and over again,

to ask one question.

Where do we go from here?

 

Because of a boy,

I know the answer.

We go forward.

Because of this boy,

I get up out of my bed,

and I swim against anxiety’s angry tide,

and float amidst the silent stares.

I hold my breath, and I wait.

This boy.

His name is Jack.

He has autism.

Because of him,

I know things.

I know tolerance.

And judgment.

And disappointment.

And grace.

I know life is complicated.

And hard.

And easy.

And ordinary.

But mostly, I know a different kind of joy.

My son.

Jack-a-boo.