Scattered Leaves and Thoughts

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.