He screams, terrified, angry,
And tears stream down my cheeks, wet, desperate;
I plead and ask what goes unanswered,
And wish with dreamlike vanity for relief and release.
Although his crying subsides outwardly,
I often wonder if he shares in my deep inward weeping,
Buried under mounds of smiles and the day’s busyness.
This…this cheap imitation of what real life
Is supposed to be isn’t what I purchased,
But this gift (?) was given to me —
Weary, wary me — so unprepared.
Then there is laughter genuine from his lips,
And I hold him, precious, sacred;
Although words are few from his mouth,
Sometimes words fail miserably.
A mother’s love, a son’s love —
These are unchanged by any diagnosis.
01/25/15 (written in response to my son’s autism)