(Warrior) Mum.

i mourn

the things

that

(this)

life

will not give

to you.

but,

i do not

mourn

you.

— (warrior) mum.

There are days that I mourn what my beautiful boy will never have in this life.

But, I do not mourn him.

He is joy and sunshine and innocence, and my heart is attached to his by an invisible umbilical cord.

He is the answer to desperate prayers and hope fulfilled — treasure in the shape of a boy.

[On mothering] Autism.

I walk before you,

always searching for

the danger

that you will never see;

or,

anticipate.

I walk next to you,

always with your hand in mine,

even now as time,

mercilessly,

changes you into a man.

My mother’s hands

will hold you,

for as long as I can.

This,

I promise.

I walk behind you,

to let you go;

just a little.

Just

a

little.

My tongue is never still;

always interpreting this bright, noisy,

overwhelming world;

for you.

Helping you make sense of

this beautiful,

never-ending

assault

on your senses.

My mouth is never quiet;

always interpreting your bright,

quirky flappiness

for the rest of the world.

Hoping,

that through my

fluency

they might see,

you,

and walk in kindness.

They don’t always understand;

the beauty

of you.

My eyes are always searching;

searching,

always.

For

just

a glimmer of kindness;

somewhere.

My hands are strong;

toughened.

From holding on;

fiercely clinging

to hope.

Where sometimes,

it feels like

there is none.

My heart holds more love

than I ever thought

possible.

This muscle grown strong

from loving you;

without condition.

Grown strong,

from standing up

to threats.

And there have been many.

And even on days where

my heart

is cracked

from the weight

of dreams,

broken,

I still count it all as

beautiful.

This gift

of

you.

—[On mothering] Autism.

The Therapist.

At home, Gabriel only ate the red M&M’s.

The other colours all terrified him.

His exasperated mum wrote it off as ‘just another of his autistic quirks.’

He couldn’t tell her that the angry lady with the piercing eyes, always ate the red ones during his ABA sessions; ‘rewarding’ him with the other colours when his fear finally forced him to follow her barked commands.

The other colours were the currency of her grudging satisfaction, and only when she slid them across the table at him, one by one, did he not have to look into her eyes.

To Gabriel, red, was the colour of freedom.

Courage, dear heart.

Just like in nature, our lives go through seasons. And, sometimes it might seem as if the winter will never ease its grip on us.

But, take courage – Spring will come.

And (new) life will return to your heart.

Until then remember that even in the harsh barrenness of frozen soil, seeds are waiting for just the right moment to push through and flourish.