Sometimes, I worry my prayers. I squint hard, stumbling over what to say. “I have no words,” I mutter. I take notes, not wanting to forget what I meant to mention. I worry about the public articulation of my need, how I’ll sound. I forget who hears me. Maybe, I misunderstand what He knows already. […]

I look down the row all the way to my three babies, now all taller than me–my girls, their legs curving in all the same places as mine, Adam, with shoulders to match Kevin’s. Laser lights stretch across the room like sunbeams. The beat of the music trembles over my cheeks. Even in the darkened […]

From my office, I heard their voices, the soft, deep rumble of Father training son. “Do you still need Lantus?” Kevin asked Adam, who grunted over the forced pause.  What is it about us that we resent the time it takes to grow? Lantus is to long-release insulin what Kleenex is to tissue, merely a […]

Saturday morning, Adam walks downstairs wearing his football jersey, which is blue like the crisp Fall sky, blue like his eyes.  I say walk, but his steps have a certain bounce that matches his wide smile. Maybe autism steals away my son’s words, but Adam’s body has always found its own ways to convey what […]

I hear my son before I see him.  I know by heart the specific sound of his long, flat feet on the hardwood floor at the base of the stairs; I know the circuitous, spinning route he takes from one room to another, checking for me, checking for signs that nothing unexpected has altered the […]

At the end of the day, when I walk in from the shore with the sunset on my cheeks and my skin still warm from the sun, I find the text: I know you’re at the beach, but I just had to tell you what happened today.  The text comes from one of Adam’s gifted […]

Friday morning, while the light’s still new, Adam slides his Father’s Day gift out of hiding. “Play golf,” Adam says, pausing the game he’s playing on the Xbox, sauntering over to where Kevin and I stand talking, dropping the words like a couple of coins in Kevin’s palm.  Adam watches our faces, looking for something–a […]

Sometimes, there aren’t words.  Instead, there are smells–rotten and sour and wrecked. “Mom Jones?  Oh, where is she?” I hear Riley before I see her, hear her thinking out loud down the hallway, peering into rooms, twisting that rope of sun-gold hair absently into an uneven bun.  Her hair captures so much light I expect […]

Knife taps against cutting board and the onion cries.  The delicate scarlet rings fall, hiding the slicing scars, all those crisscrossed lines like a haphazard tally of breaths.  If only the flavors–peppery and sun-soaked and honey-sweet–lasted as long as the evidence of our cooking.  A sigh slips as I turn my burning eyes away from the […]

When we round the corner, she gets up from where she sits, pushing open the door.  I can see the cold, straight legs of a card table through a narrow opening; I can tell she has hair the color of straw, that she wears a rose-colored shirt.  Even before she stands in the doorway holding […]