DAD MOMENTS

After the Journey

TIME

It is time, I tell my son. Time to clean out his dad's dresser and closet. Time to give away clothing that other people might be able to use. The school where I teach has an outreach program for the homeless population; many are in need of the coats, scarves, and sweatshirts Ron once wore. Allen nods at me and, resolutely, we begin to make piles.

Sweatpants.

Shorts.

Shirts.

Scarves. Not the Phillies' one, Bonnie has claimed that.

Hats. But not the Eagles' one, which needs to stay on his chair.

Sweatshirts.

The heavy blue coat Ron only wore twice.

Gloves.

Flannel pajama pants, never worn.

Plaid shirt. Not the gray one, which still carries scents of Ron's aftershave.

Photo by Isaac Castillejos on Unsplash

MOMENT

After a short time, Allen says to me, "I need a Dad moment."

"Okay," I say. Dad moments have become an integral part of our lives these last nine months. Whenever we become overwhelmed by thoughts of Ron, we stop and share a memory. These are important to both of us, but most especially for Allen whose neuro-atypical brain would not let him easily process the finality of his father's death. In fact, Allen, who is an adult with Asperger's Syndrome, spent eight months convinced there was a magical formula that would bring his father back.

Autism grief is not typical grief. I needed to let Allen work it out for himself, joining him on his magical journeys to the parks and fields where he thought his father might leave clues, to the train station and the boat yard where his father might arrive, and finally to the tearful realization that his dad was not coming back.

I needed to let Allen have all the time he needed to work it all out.

"I remember," I tell Allen as I straighten the piles of clothing before us, "how much Dad loved Christmas. How he always wanted everyone to have lots of presents, even when we had little money to buy them. "

“I remember,” says Allen, “how Dad did that goofy dance where he waved his arms around. He always looked so happy!”

“We called it “The Ronnie’”, I remind Allen.

STILL ROOM

Allen nods. "And I just want Dad to know," he says, "that if he ever gets tired of heaven, he can come back. There will always be room for Dad."

"Yes," I agree. I cannot imagine anyone ever wanting to leave the glory of heaven, but I am glad that Allen has finally accepted where his father now resides. We finish piling up the clothing and place it into bags I will take to school on Monday. Allen carries them out to my car.

"You know," he says when he returns, "I still miss Dad. I guess I always will. But I am really, really glad I had a Dad like him. And I think," and Allen's voice drops to a whisper, "I can still feel him loving me."

"So can I," I tell my son. "So can I."

Linda Cobourn is working on a book entitled Finding Father:A Journey of Faith on the Autism Spectrum. The book recounts her son’s unique grief experience as he tried for eight months to find “Dad” and bring him home. You can help her find a publisher and read more about Allen’s search for his father by signing up for her free blog at Quirky: Because we're all a little different