by Cynthia Gauthier
Last night as I was drifting off to sleep
I heard from across the hall
your still childlike voice,
rambling off a new string of
oft repeated yet unrelated words.
Among those, my very favorite:
“Circle life”.
That heart melting phrase that you chose on your own.
Your battle cry of obvious joy
Has stayed impeccably true over so many years
Where words taught to you- I daresay, imposed on you– by others
Would surely have been lost.
It was quite late, well past your bed time
When I distantly heard the indecipherable conversation of one
Though not an unfamiliar affair,
I nonetheless shot straight up from under the covers;
like a masked weasel popping from his burrow to assess a distant danger.
Darkness stunned into wakefulness.
I listened
To the masterful, mysterious private language of you.
A secret code.
The only key to its encryption locked within.
Your symphony of words
Broke through the protective cocoon
Of my nightly respite, a slumbering trance.
As soon as I recognized the voice
I was instantly, unmistakably awash
In the warmth and pure cleansing power of relief.
Yes! I am awake. Awake and alive.
And you, you too are alive.
Here. Now.
Alas! We are safe
my beloved innocence
And I’m gifted one more day, I pray.
To do my best, to hold this mighty roof up.
Another day to wrap my strong arms tightly
Around this Autistic miracle I’ve been blessed.
To find a way to guide and protect
Without smothering.
Oh this, the ultimate challenge!
This “circle life” as you so eloquently and often
prod me to take notice of,
Is almost as sweet as the angelic sound of your voice.
This circle of life.
A mother lioness and her ever present Simba shadow.
Could the circle ever break? And if so, when?
When breath ceases? Mine? Yours?
Does the circle then become a curved line
with a beginning and an end?
Or, is our precious “circle life” an impenetrable circle of infinity?
When we are no longer blessed
with the fleshy tenderness of intertwined fingers,
your smaller hand nestled perfectly in mine…
Will you and I become one again?
Intricately rearranged by God
(or a yet to be discovered Great Law of Cosmo physics)
into something entirely new?
A bird maybe? Or a flower?
Perhaps a weed.
When is a flower not a weed?
It surely does not matter.
I digress… I could do that all day.
I’ve done it before.
Oh, but do tell me, my special sage of very few words.
Tell me more of this “circle life” you cling to with such luminous joy.
©2018 by Cynthia Gauthier
