tadkil

My sons.

The oldest has asberger's syndrome. He is autistic, it is mild. He moves in the world. He finds joy. He is sometimes blind to innuendo and subtlety. He says what he thinks and sees and is not always able to understand that his words can scar or be unkind. Each time he says a thing that has teeth to it, he shudders when he sees the bite marks. He can see the hurt, but does not understand how he makes it. His tears are pure. He does not want to harm and is stunned when he does. His life is gasping wonder.

My youngest. He is a bright ball of fire and passion. He is bi-polar and five. It is a heavy burden for a little soul and he struggles with his rage. It burns in him. Sometimes it comes from him, molten. He punches. He hits. He descends into darkness and claws back to us and into the light. But his laughter is like golden sunshine and his love is as profound and as absolute as his rage. He burns brightly.

They are my broken joy. Some days I ache with want for them. They will not be better. This is their life. Like the water in tide they are pulled by forces they do not understand, but feel deeply in the quickness of who they are. But they love me. And coiled around the stem of my brain is this unescapable passion for them. They walk their path. I walk with them.

I have no words for what it feels like when they hold my hand.

The years stretch on and away. The horizon beckons. We walk on.