A Happy Marriage

The coffee pot sits on the counter. Next to it, plates piled with bagels and eggs.

You got up early to make breakfast.

We settle into chairs and talk about the day ahead. Our oldest son flying in for a quick visit. A mid-afternoon baseball game for our 20-year old. Our daughter is going to the movies with friends. The youngest has a shift at the restaurant where he works. Jack is firmly in place.

Jack.

The boy we worried would live here forever - who would forever be confined by the parenthesis autism imposed. Now, thriving in a supported community.

The other kids wander in to snag pieces of bacon. They hoist backpacks and grab keys. One by one, they sing out goodbye.

We are alone. Together, we sit in companiable silence. You mention August. Coordinating two college drop-offs. Phone in hand, you start to rattle off dates for orientation, welcome luncheons. Curtly, I say I don’t want to talk about it.

The air becomes charged.

Slowly, the way a spill becomes a stain, we started to unravel all the different expectations we have around our kids. College. Autism.

Your eyes flash. I hear a shrillness in my voice.

Now, what was a peaceful morning has turned spiky.

How well we know each other’s nervous systems. How easily we escalate our own.

What is the heart of this matter? What is the truth behind our words?

Love. Loss. Grief. Fear.

A new season.

I study the yellow summer sun spilling across the floor.

Summer is good. This is what I tell myself. We wait for it through the slow, muddy spring. We long for the sun and the sea-salt air.

Not me. I mean, I like salty air and the kids at the beach. But give me fall any day.

Give me fall because then the waiting is over. The mattress covers have been purchased and stretched over beds in a dusty dorm room. The house contracts and sighs around itself.

And I can begin to learn once more.

How to miss my kids.

Don’t you miss them? Isn’t this hard for you too?

This is what I want to ask but I don’t.

A few hours later, we are in different seats at the ballfield. Next to me is our oldest son, oblivious to any marital fissures from the morning. I am glad.

Before us, the game unfolds. Bats ring. The crowd cheers. I smell popcorn.

Behind us sits a young couple. She cradles an infant with dark hair. He chases a toddler in overalls. Instantly, I am transported back in time. My heart squeezes.

You tap your knee against mine. I catch your eye and offer a smile. I can almost see what you are thinking.

We were young once.

They were young once.

You miss them the way the thirsty earth misses the rain.

“When did you start traveling as a family? How did you manage it with autism?”