In 2005, when Billy was 13, we struggled to keep Billy home and safe, when he was running off (in the autism world we call this "fleeing") every chance he got:
WHEREVER YOU MAY WANDER
Huck Finn, Charles Bucket, Davie Balfour:
Fiction’s full of boys who explore.
Boys who wander, boys who stray,
Boys who’d rather not sit and stay.
And though we’d like to think Billy’s the same,
It’s autism that causes his wandering game,
A game he plays that he doesn’t intend,
and one we would neither endorse or defend.
We stay vigilant, but do what we may,
Sooner or later he slips away. . .
Like the time in the Home Depot
(where we suburbanites ebb and flow):
Billy was with us, but then made a dash,
Or must have, because he was gone in a flash.
Up one aisle and down another,
Ran his frantic Father and Mother,
Past the light bulbs, the ladders, the screws,
Searching for Billy, looking for clues,
Finding him, oddly, with a full cart,
Somewhere near the gardening mart,
Unconcerned and looking merry,
Peeking at us through a weeping cherry,
That some poor shopper had picked with care,
Only to have it vanish like air!
Or the time in the ski rental store,
When Billy walked off, to be seen no more,
Until, amid the ski poles and gloves,
A shower of ski boots fell from above;
There was Billy, at the balcony rail,
Innocently causing this boot-shaped hail.
Glad we were, to see he was found,
Yet horror struck as each boot hit the ground!
Once, at a club, on the Cape Cod sand,
Billy was suddenly nowhere at hand.
And while we searched, echoing our motion,
Small blobs of yellow bobbed on the ocean.
Small floating signals that Billy was near
And having his way with the club’s tennis gear!
We soon caught Billy, but balls are tricky,
Some boaters helped out, and so did Ricky.
Speaking of water, there was a time
when Billy sneaked off (with reason and rhyme),
while we visited a friend near a lake,
and decided, though fully clothed, to take
what probably was a refreshing swim,
while we were run ragged, looking for him.
But here is a clue that you’ve searched enough:
You spy your son on the dock, in the buff,
Soggy wet clothes in a pile near his feet,
Just a bit cold and a tad indiscreet!
There is no telling when Billy will roam,
Sometimes we’re away, sometimes we’re at home.
But when he does, both brothers help track,
And both have success in bringing him back.
Michael has eagle eyes, Ricky runs fast,
And each helped out in this story that’s last:
When Billy walked off in the neighborhood,
and our kind neighbors searched where they could,
But nowhere was Billy, and this wasn’t fun,
We searched with the car. We called nine-one-one.
The police found Billy at the Gulf station,
Exceeding his daily potato chip ration,
Displaying faint traces yet, on his lip,
Of having had ice cream, mint chocolate chip!
But still, ‘though we laugh, I shudder today
To think that he crossed a divided highway.
And so that’s the last, but there will be more.
The world is full of boys who explore.
Boys who wander, boys who stray,
Each has adventures, in his own way.
