The whisper of the crinkle of leaves, the colors to flash in our eyes in the passing greenery.  The promise of winds swirling all that has fallen from once ripe trees, littering our floors with a premonition of the cold to come.

August, in its blaze of glory, gives mention of the beauty of fall to come.  September is more forthright; October is full bloom fall.  But August.  August holds the breath that can only be breathed by those searching for its secrets.  That’s why I love August.

Many, though certainly not all, that I love, I appreciate, I connect with on an unspoken level are wards of August days.  Lifelong friends, a group of friends I’ve left back east… all of us were proud to belong to August.

Past loves, dear friends, dear cousins, many family members, my brother, belong to this month.  My dearest grandmother.  A woman whom I miss so very much; a woman to whom I solidified my bond with later in life, who fought for her family’s future pursuits, who too recently passed, 6 years ago…she was a sister of mine in August.

And her husband, my grandfather.  One to whom I was unable to solidify as strong of a bond with, only because time and maturity did not allow.  I think of him each day.  Every day.  Sometimes twice when the clock strikes 8:16.  I think of him.  For though he was not a man of August, he belonged to October, as Zach does….

My grandfather found his lucidity long enough to sing Happy Birthday to me hours before he passed.  On my birthday.

His head turns back and forth as I pat his back, trying to help him get out the final burp of the day. He does. His head goes back and forth a little longer as he finds a comfortable place. Holding my 9 month old, his arm lopping across mine in the sleepiest of sleeps; his other arm, bent as if holding on to my chest to be sure I was still there. I smell his smells, feel his weight, note his size, hear his mouth making the final soft smacking noises before going right back to sleep…like he had a good meal, licked his 4 teeth and his gums and is ready for his nights rest.

I know I will never get this back. I will never again feel these sensations, smell him this way, hear his noises that I try to burn into my mind. There’s no real way to record this. We will have no more children; my memory will falter. I am grateful for having him, and my other 2, and being able to experience all of this with each of them.

Later as the helicopter’s song is long gone, as the silence fills my sun worshiping afternoon, I still find myself looking up to the skies above. This time, it’s the airplanes. Silent, foreign, far; too far to make any noise known to me.

It is then that their silent magnificence makes sense to me. They are a wonder. These large metal beasts taming the air surrounding them, cutting through the fluff of the clouds carrying people…somewhere. Here. Away. Somewhere

The fact that such large constructs of metal can do such a thing is wonderfully amazing. It’s all the mechanics, the engineering, pure calculations of science, matter and how they all interact….except to a little boy.

To a boy with all the needs of Alex’s, airplanes and all flight machines are a wonder. A construct of hope, awe, magic. I wonder if this is the reason why he loves them so. Why he flies them around our house, mimicking their sound…to pause and consider them?

To consider their possibilities? To consider the number of other things that may be possible if hunks of smooth metal can be welded together, painted a pretty color and thrown into the sky with the normalcy that we all have now taken for granted?

If a 6 year old boy with cerebral palsy, autism and more can see the magic that our world holds, taking care to point it out to us at each passing, ensuring we take part in the magic surrounding us, that we don’t let it pass us by so easily, shouldn’t we watch? Take note. Consider the possibilities that our lives, our world holds….

There’s something about being a mother of a child with special needs. I feel it for my other two, my beautiful “neurotypical” children; a feeling all parents, most especially mothers have. But there’s an edge to being a mother of a child with Alex’s needs. A salient threshold that’s uncontrollable in nature.

You seek to protect at every turn. Your insight, your foresight goes beyond the normal, natural boundaries of parenthood. You develop a sight of future endeavors, challenges, hurts, struggles, triumphs. Your vigilance in every experience, every breath is heightened only with the blanket of humanity’s nature holding you back. And this is in a simple walk through a grocery store; in a quick encounter with a peer from school; while watching on during child’s play in the neighborhood.

Eyes wide, perched, taking in all that surrounds my Alex, listening to words placed upon him, to whispers floating around him; expressions on faces, a quick glance there, a grimace there, I watch…I wait.

Dreams of rest evade him this evening, as most. The struggle between what he’s built and what he wants to re-build at odds. They couldn’t be farther from each other, the swanky restaurant in mid-town, the must-be spot highlighted in all those magazines; the farmhouse of the past in upstate with peeling paint, doors struggling for their place, the creaking of the porch as his new rocker sways under his weight.

Ironic, he thought, that she should bring him a new rocker for the enjoyment of this place.

She did not enjoy this as much as he. She preferred the limelight that came with the ownership of the restaurant. She enjoyed the high priced materials both in the restaurant and in her closet. She reveled in greeting the stars, the Mayor, the Judges that paid them patronage, tasting their foods, laughing with the spirits of their wines.

When he told her of this property, of his pull towards that of the past, the bond with the surroundings away from the chaos of the work, the headache of the cars, the people, the activity, he was unprepared for her reaction. Sure, he knew it would be difficult for her. He knew that it might take an adjustment, but he did not expect that she would feel as though his need for this move, this change in their life was an attack against her. He did not realize that Steph would claim this desire as an assault against her lifestyle, her wants, her needs, her.

After so many years, so much hard work, too many sacrifices, it’s time for a change. She needs to see that, he needs to show her. There’s a different life. A new chapter for them, for their children. Would he be successful is showing her this? Would she come around, adjust, embrace what his needs are, what he’s suppressed for so long and intertwine it with hers?

That, he didn’t know, but he had to keep trying, because this was the place for them, the place to begin their family. She did buy him this rocking chair…maybe that was a signal that she was beginning to accept?

So many thoughts, feelings. So much that would not be determined in this evening. At least she came with him this time. At least she agreed to this weekend in the old farmhouse of upstate. As the softest of breezes blew about, he engulfed a long last breath before returning to their bed for the night, where she was awake, waiting for him.

“What were you doing John?” she asked with sleepy concern.

“Testing out the rocker you brought for me. It’s nice. Thank you.”

As she rolled over to turn out the light, she sighed, “Your welcome.”

Before the silence of the field surrounding them could weave the sleep into their night, he took this one last chance.

“Steph? Why did you buy the rocker for me?” He tried to stifle the hope that lingered in the sentence. Will he be able to read the answer that she gives, if she can escape her oncoming dreams long enough to answer?

She yawned, her back towards him, beckoning him to cuddle up behind her and keep her warm as the chill begins to nip at their toes.

“I thought that color might look good on the porch. We can get some accent pillows from that little corner shop on Bermuda next week.”