You probably won't ever get to see this, and, if you do, I can only pray that you understand it.
Growing up, I never really understood what autism was. I knew that my cousin had it, and that it made him special. I knew that, even though we were the same age, Mommy and Daddy told me I had to be extra careful if I played with him. I knew that my cousin had a goofy grin, a wanderlust that could never be fulfilled, and a way of making you smile. That was the extent of my knowledge.
It wasn't until we were 14-years-old that I understood. I can remember waking up and getting ready for school like it was any other day. I also remember my father sitting my sister and me down and telling us that our cousin got out of the house, and that the cops were helping my aunt and uncle look for him. There was that wanderlust again. But that wasn't it; it wasn't just his wanderlust that struck me this time. I went to school that morning with a heavy heart and the realization that my cousin has autism.
That word has a foreboding echo in conversations. Autism, autism, autism. It has a way of silencing groups and turning heads. Until then, the word "autism" was a normal thing for me. My family talked about it in a way that made my younger self believe everyone was accustomed to it. No longer was he just the scared boy that wouldn't go down the tunnel slide at the pool, the boy I helped my uncle coax down the slide, or the only family member that still calls me "Carrie." Now he is the boy with autism. That morning I realized the weight of that word, and the effect it has on everyone around it.
I remember sitting in the counselors office crying. "He's never going to get to..." I kept repeating this with a list of things he would never get to do. I was devastated. I always just thought my cousin was different, but I never knew the extent of how different he is. My counselor calmed me down with a call home to check on the progress of the search (he was home) and a reminder. She reminded me that, even though he is different and will experience life differently than I will, he can be, and probably is, happy.
And she was right. Ever since that reminder, I make sure to notice the joy on his face when I see him. The smile he has as he walks around and discovers new things. The silly noises and laughs he makes as he swings in a hammock. The boy who loves to wander found a way to wander into all of our hearts. These moments are the reminders that he is living a happy life, and everything is going to be okay.
