Jack-O-Lanterns to Pumpkins

The afternoon sun shines brightly overhead. 

A young mother pushes a stroller down the long, winding street. Leaves crunch under her feet as the trees begin their colorful descent toward winter.

To her right is a little boy. He is perhaps four. He wears a red jacket against the October chill. He clutches a sheaf of paper to his chest. 

On her left is another boy – younger than the first. His jacket is blue. He stares vacantly into the distance.  

She glances at the boy in blue. She follows his gaze to the horizon, unsure of what he sees, what he thinks.

Autism is the thief of her son. It steals him from her. 

Jack-o-lanterns and pumpkins dot doorsteps, sidewalks. Orange faces grin outwardly. You can almost predict the age of the children inside each house by the style of fall décor. 

Slowly they walk, stopping at each mailbox. The bigger boy opens each one and stuffs a piece of paper inside with both hands. He is delighted.

An invitation. A Halloween party for the neighborhood.

The baby sleeps, lulled by the movement of the stroller.

The mother feels the warmth of the sun. For a moment, she relaxes.

She thinks about how nice this afternoon is, how no one is screaming, how the thief is quieted – even if briefly.

The reach the end of the street. They cross to the other side.

She glances to her left. He is not beside her. He is gone. The boy in blue, the child of the vacant stare, the boy she cannot know.

She looks around wildly. Her eyes find him as her heart catches up to the panic.

He stands, as if rooted to the earth. The last mailbox. On the other side of the street.

She hears a rumbling. A truck. It has a familiar logo on the side. She’s seen it when they needed oil delivered in the wintertime.

She grips the handle of the stroller. Panic reverberates down her spine. She, too, is rooted to her spot.

In slow motion, he begins to run.

Jack! No! Wait.

Her scream is desperate. It is every mistake she has ever made. 

He runs to her. In front of the truck, he runs. Hands outstretched against the sky, the sun, the leaves, the trees.

He runs in front of the oil truck. 

Fifteen years have passed since that day.

The young mother is now just shy of fifty.

She sits on her porch beneath an October sky. Autumn’s confetti sprinkles the earth with color.

Pumpkins are arranged upon the steps. True to life’s metrics, she no longer has small children. Dearly, she misses them.

She thinks of blue jackets, of palms outstretched, of bright orange faces grinning into sunlight.

She thinks of an oil truck trundling down the street, the driver’s silhouette though the window.

Did he see him?

Was he inches away? Or a quarter of a mile?

She will never know. 

She only knows her heart stops at the memory every time her mind lands on it.

This is motherhood. It is measured in hopeful inches and miles of regret. 

She thinks of her boy now, at nineteen. He is tall. He wears glasses. He still peers off into the distance at times, but autism feels less like a thief. 

Life’s slideshow is vivid with color and light.

Tears after school, homework torn to shreds, sleepless nights, gentle surprises, tender mercies.

Now, he walks across a sunlit campus, doing things she didn’t have the sense to dream for him.

How far he’s come. 

His hands were like stars. 

His favorite color is blue.

He made it to her. On her knees, she trembled before him.

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