Writing with Juliet Iwelunmor

When I look back to that day, look back to the first day, the bright side day, always, I see the day isn’t waiting. It is long gone. Nothing about the first day remains. Except it’s music or sound. Not its rain or storm. Except the gratitude that follows. Such is the story of meltdowns that are now commonplace, rolling out as if part of this beautiful life, sometimes more beautiful than life, the thick cries, the persistence sighs, all of them still stand clear as the waves of his soft, curly hair, big brown eyes gazing downwards unfazed. I do not want to minimize the experience, because every meltdown is an experience, not only necessary, but a way of life. From his mouth to our ears, I swear each sound we now hear is as eloquent as rain falling around a field of green grass, and these days, you could not imagine a sweeter sound, than the songs of our son. 

My son insists on recording a video. He wants my phone and I said no. The simple request would turn into a meltdown that has me wondering where do we go from here. Autism never ends as a child gets older. There are days where we pray he would grow out of this phase, but then this phase is all he knows, all his brain knows that we have two choices, pray it away or lean into it. We are leaning as we pray and listening as he plays the songs only his brain knows how to sing eloquently. Keep this.