I cry. I contribute.

I find myself crying. With the ease of my own fragility, my sadness and pain bubble to my surface. Squeezing my chest and throat, tightness of breath, fear flaring my nostrils, tears rising salt sting into the corners of my eyes. I have no controls these days, moments; no mechanism to pull, turn, or switch.

Still, I act. My mind, neuro-not-typical, its beautiful intelligence, rapid fire thoughts, abundance of acts. I perform at length, all day. I prepare myself for routine and cope ahead for impromptu. While I must plan to eat, nourishment also comes with impulse.

When I can, I reach. My heart, velvety vulnerable, genuinely flawed, desires to connect, contribute. I avail my self, my love, my beloved ones. Wealth of a simple message from the heart, to the ones who it beats for.

Missives of validation, gratitude, affirmation, adoration. A reminder. Each message, it’s not an expectation, not a tacit request. It is an effort at contribution. An act of creation.

A world in which I can cry and still contribute.

Good Mornings

A good morning is when the kids are on time. But that’s not always a necessity. Smiles, laughs, and I-love-you’s. Silly without stress. No talking back. Just doing it. Together.

I love waving goodbye to my kids when their Dad is pulling out of my driveway to take them to school. That he was able. I love seeing more smiles, feeling the smile on my own face.

I turn to go into the empty, quiet house to begin my own, post-school-drop-off routine. I open the door still smiling, with my heart full and content. I step into the kitchen and whisper to myself, “you’re such an asshole.”