Last March, my son was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum
Disorder. None of the impressions that follow here relate to this, or convey
anything, I suppose, other than my conviction that we are in exactly the right
place, and that we are home.
When the hurricane was at its most present, weather.com
reported that winds might accelerate up to ninety miles per hour around three in
the morning. I don’t think that they were higher than forty-five, but I was
nervous as each of the rooms in our apartment is entirely bordered by tall
trees that were swaying crazily. So before the power went out, I had dragged
Langston’s twin mattress into the thin hallway, wedged in the wall space
between the bathroom and the pantry closet.
Bedrooms doors were closed, in case a window might not make it.
The lights went out at the end of dinner, and Langston was briefly
upset, insisting that they be put back on, but as I lit a collection of candles
and began our bedtime routine, he came around. After he managed to settle into
to sleep, it was the sweetest thing to be camping out together in the hallway,
high winds whistling and shrieking outside.
Several days later, we walked in the great woods which are
just outside our doorstep. The trees,
stunning and full of vibrant orange and reds the week before had been stripped,
many felled close to the path, with stubble where branches had been. A dense
carpet of beech leaves layered on top of the ground’s previous tenants, mostly
maple and oak leaves.
There’s nothing quite as peaceful and enjoyable as the three
to four mile hikes that my son and I take every weekend. We rarely run into
another person on the trail, and walls of towering trees are the perfect frame
for our home. As we crunch through the
paths, Langston points out what are becoming our favorite landmarks, from a slim
white birch trunk which he balances across, to the huge boulders of rocks which
rise like buildings, to the slippery steeper sections of the climb where he now
mockingly anticipates my, “Carrrreful
steps! Carrrreful steps!”
Walking in these woods with Langston a deep feeling of
satisfaction prevails: that we should be there, together, happily tripping
along, grasping each other’s hands at time for balance and connection. I can
only imagine how good it feels for Langston to be in such a space, free of the
mechanical beeps, screeches, and other cacophonous terrors of the world, to
feel the thick sink of his boots in a layer of leaves, to hop with his two feet
together and land safely off a large rock. Every now and then, worried that he’ll
tire, I may ask if he wants to turn around and go back or keep going. “Keep
going?” he asks.
That’s my New Hampshire boy.
