"We don't dwell on what can't be:
It limits possibility."
It limits possibility."
Welcome to AutismVerse, a collection of poems documenting our journey into the world of autism. Our low-functioning autistic son Billy is now 22, and although he is largely non-verbal, he is doing well. In this blog we are publishing poems in honor of all the families out there who are struggling with an autistic child who is difficult to manage. It is the story of our love for Billy and his place in our family. It is also the story of a collaboration between Billy's mother, me (Karen) and the writer of the poems, India. Read more about our collaboration, which started when Billy was just 10, in our Backstory. In the following poem, India gives an overview of our struggles with autism and also our progress, which has been slow but, thankfully, very real.
The Gift of Time
Oftentimes, when the kids were small
We had no time to rest at all.
One would be crying, one was wet,
One was autistic, don't forget.
This meant doctors, and MRIs,
Hope mixed with sorrow, midnight cries.
No one went hungry, but day to day
mere survival was what held sway.
And though we hoped that change would come
the lack of progress left us numb.
Then, little by little, bit by bit
Each of us got the hang of it.
Ricky grew into the helpful one,
keeping us sane, our middle son.
Michael, the fun-filled youngest boy,
is full of questions, full of joy.
And what of Billy, our first child,
by wondrous whim of nature styled?
Whose path is different and yet
Who walks with us with no regret,
Who grins when I come visit school,
and doesn't care that it's uncool,
Whose need for movement keeps us trim,
whether we're swimming, or jogging with him,
(who, though he'd not strike you as bold,
Has thrice won Special Olympics gold),
Who loves to hear us sing along,
especially to a Christmas song,
Who never tires of favorite things
The tandem bike, the playground swings,
Who grows up, but remains a child
In certain ways that make us smile.
Who'll help in any way he can,
Who'll stay with us, when he's a man.
Back when life seemed on the brink
of utter chaos, who would think
that order could regain its grip,
that gradually the scales could tip
back towards peace and breathing space,
a not quite perfect, but happy place.
Humble blessings, yet I confess
we count them miracles, nonetheless.
