An autistic child
to his mother
My window to the world is
a fractured globe of glass turned
in upon itself –
through it I can sense other worlds
which sometimes thrill or threaten me,
but I have no words to share with you
just what it is I sense,
or what it is that threatens me.
But look into the mirror of my eyes to see yourself;
to see, perhaps, how I might perceive
wind-storms tossing trees against the blue of shredded sky:
to hear with me the creaming of the waves on
shingled, pearled beaches,
or smashing, gleaming foam high upon the torn and ragged
cliffs,
or secrets chattered by the creek to pebbles on its sandy bed-
a bird’s song,
the flash of butterfly, the hum of bees and
scent of roses.
If you hold me tightly, I shall struggle to be free –
I need to fly from deep within myself
like Icarus, to reach the sun and warm myself to
love and life and laughter,
but cannot.........
For I have no real sense of who I am – to me or you –
and can only mutely beg your love be always poured to me from
the well-spring of our grieving-
for we still are one.
“Being at home can be fun, insulating, relaxed, boring or isolating ... depending on how the day is going.”*
School holidays are almost over in my part of the world – six long weeks of noise and squabbling balanced by hot, lazy days at the beach or the pool with lots of daring exploits and laughter. Many of our days were spent at home, basking in simple pleasures like baking, playing games or outdoor pursuits – trying to relax the everyday routines of school-morning bustle and ‘having to be somewhere on time’. However pleasant, I must admit to being relieved that life gets back to normal next week, and I can reclaim some of my own time for writing again!
* From Being Mummy by Anne‑marie Taplin published April 2007