The Small Things

There are days when I know what I am doing. And days when I question everything.

Life.

Autism.

The weather.

My stubborn sinusitis acting up again.

My mother's memory loss.

The state of my country.

Friends who have come and gone.

Friends who stayed. 

Life.

Autism. 

Days comprising a three-hour trip to a nearby island where all I have for company are Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things I have not finished reading since Typhoon Yolanda,  the rumblings of the February sea, the boat crew's hustling and bustling and myself questioning my failings as a mother.

Now more than ever, I am unsure of everything. As if I have blindfolds on and I am left groping, my arms reaching out for something to hold on to, my feet traversing uncertain ground. Where here I am waiting for a voice to tell me where to go. But there is none. The only sound I hear is my heart beating loud as drums, my unsteady footing.

Am I doing enough? Am I doing too much? Is this the right thing to do? Do they need more time? Do I need more time? Will we have enough time?

The details are too numerous to tell it overwhelms me.

How do I get by? How do we get by?

With The Small Things:

Garret setting and clearing the table before and after every meal.

Morgan eating at the table every time he eats and putting his plate in the kitchen sink afterwards.

Garret helping me make the bed. No complaints. A smile on his face.

Morgan bringing the grocery bags when asked. Fingers curled firmly around the bag handles, his grip no longer lofty.

Functional Independence, the therapists call it. Life skills, we prefer to name it. 

The Small Things that  have been borne out of huge things-- Patience, Firmness, Understanding, Love,  Relentless, Persistent, not your ordinary run-of-the-mill Love.

Still, uncertainty looms.  I  question everything.

Life.

Autism.

The weather.

My stubborn sinusitis acting up again.

My mom's memory loss.

The state of my country.

Friends who have come and gone.

Friends who stayed. 

Life.

Autism.

And then as I type this, a hand taps me gently and asks me softly, "Sulli..." It is Garret showing me his Sullivan toy. He wants me to play his favorite movie. He did not grab my hand. He asked gently, showing me his toy. Oh my Little Prince. Language in the clearest, simplest form.

The Small Things. Perhaps this is the voice I have been waiting for to help me find my way in the dark and it's telling me in a voice as loud as drums, "Mama, you can take those blindfolds off now."