WALKING


At twelve, thirteen,
fourteen months,
when most children
begin to walk,
or make a show
of pulling their soft
wobbly bodies
to stand,

you were content
to sit and rub
the carpet, watch
the fibers grow fuzz
beneath hands
you didn’t seem to know
belonged to you.

A plump child you were,
with flesh-ringed legs
and arms,
at least three chins.

As you grew
stronger, my arms
did, too,
carrying you
room to room,
holding you
while you screamed
inconsolably,
and turned away
from others,

while you recoiled
at sights and sounds,
textures, certain clothes,
and any kind of shoe.

We didn’t know about autism,
not yet,
but I quickly learned
what brought you comfort.

When you were at peace
I could be, too.

I wonder
if you recall,
as I do,
when you were sixteen, eighteen,
twenty months
plopped on the grass,

making a study,
it seemed,
of the individual green blades,
your fat hands
brushing the tops of them
over and over,
your face some mix
of stern concentration
and happy fascination,

sweet reprieve from the screaming,
relief for my strong
but tired arms.

And still you grew,
and rebuffed
my attempts
to hold you up by the armpits,
sing walking songs
show you videos
of babies toddling happily
from toy to toy.

It was this,
the not walking,
that brought my questions
to doctors,
to Early Intervention,

that began the parade
of specialists and therapies
I never dreamed
would become our norm.

It was a blur in many ways,
that time,
but I recall when
you took your first,
tentative steps.

You were two
years two months,
finally ready
to trust your feet
against the hardness of the earth,

to step forward
into the blur of delight
and confusion
and newness
and noise.

–Melinda Coppola

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