Flying Solo

I have a love-hate relationship with the sun.

I mean, I love it. Of course I love it. Everyone loves the sun.

Yet sometimes I feel like it mocks me. When I sit at my desk, it highlights the dust on the floor, the scratches the puppy left. Springtime shadows especially make me restless.

The afternoon he diagnosed with autism there was no sun. I missed it that day.

Jack.

Jack-a-boo.

Jack-attack.

He wanted to fly alone. That was the thing. When we started planning a family trip to celebrate his older brother’s graduation, he insisted on it.

This is the spectrum tightrope we walk. Constantly, we balance progress and fear.

At twenty-two, it doesn’t seem like that big of a deal. Most young adults move about the world on their own. Yet with him, the stakes are higher. They’ve always been higher.

What if there’s a long line at security and he becomes agitated?

What if, at 6’5” tall, he gets in someone’s way?

What if they realize he has autism?

What if they don’t?

These are the questions I turned over and over in my mind, like a copper penny in the palm of my hand.

So we made the arrangements that autism demands: I booked a flight that would land in Philadelphia around the same time as his. We called TSA. We reviewed the order of things—bag check, ticket, security.

Once at the airport, I check my own bag. I follow the security line. I watch my pink carry-on glide through the machine.

And then I noticed all the screens are lit with yellow.

Delay.

Delay.

Delay.

I look up his flight. It is also delayed. Something to do with thunderstorms in the city where we are both bound.

For the next hour, we messaged back and forth. I tried to read his tone—his state of mind—in the words. For the most part, he seemed relaxed.

I tried to picture him, this tall boy of mine, pacing the terminal of a tiny airport, rubbing his hands together and watching the clock.

Finally, my flight boards. He texted me one last time. He is boarding also.

Now, here I sit on the plane. At the last minute, I bought a book at one of the kiosks to distract me. It has a picture of a horse on it. But I can’t concentrate.

Over the intercom, the flight attendant laughs nervously. She says she hopes we won’t get diverted.

Diverted? I try to picture him and I landing in completely different cities. What will we do then?

Autism doesn’t take a break when we travel. He doesn’t leave it at home like a caterpillar suit and blossom in color once the flight leaves the tarmac. Quite the contrary. The hallmark rigidity and anxiety only amplify—a radio with the volume turned up too high.

Restless, I open the book. I feel trapped, unable to make the necessary calls to put a pre-emptive plan into motion. I force myself to breathe.

The travel time is less than an hour. As we begin the descent, I glance out the window. I see the sun. And I realize.

In its slow arc across the sky, it reminds us.

We are neither springtime, nor caterpillar, nor final destination.

We are simply this moment.

A new book. An old dog asleep at home, the days of rushing on the floorboards long behind him. A peek of light above the clouds.

Cleared for landing.

“How did you teach Jack to manage his own medication?”