But then you step back, and you look again. You see each color separately. You look down at your feet and you look up once more, and you realize it is more than a painting. It is a tapestry, and it tells a story about a boy.
There so much about the real world he doesn’t understand.
He cannot begin to grasp the concept of a hurricane marching over a small island, or how a shooter’s keen eye scans an unprotected crowd, or the way a bully sizes up the easiest target.
He’s never been to a concert. Oh, sure, he knows all about them—he knows a lot of people get together and sing the lyrics to their favorite songs at the top of their lungs, swaying in time to the rhythm of the heavy beat.
But my vulnerable child has no idea what is means to stockpile ammunition, or collect weapons, or break windows in a hotel room for the clearest shot on a beautiful autumn night.
Autism is without cure, and this vulnerable boy will one day grow to a vulnerable man—a man others will prey upon, and try to scam.
A man who may stand stock-still, and watch as the flames edge closer and closer.
As much as I long to, I know I cannot always be there for him. I cannot always stand in between him and disaster.
Can you see? Can you see how important it is for me to tell his story? I have to tell you about the mall and the popcorn and the pillows. I have to tell you about the color and the tapestry and I have to make you feel as though you know my Jack-a-boo, so that one day, you might help me.
Will you help me?
Will you help me keep him safe?
Will you peer into the blaze of hatred, and behold the beauty of a complicated child?
Will you show compassion for the unusual, and mercy for compromised?
Will you think before you speak, and breathe before you act, and always look behind you when you put your car in reverse in a parking lot?
Will you listen for those who have no voice?
And if the fire alarm goes off in the grocery store, and you see a boy standing all alone with his hands clapped over his ears, will you lead him out the door?
With his hand in yours, please, run. Run from the heat as if you are outrunning the sun.
I need you.
Mom. For the concert. In Las Vegas. Did they stop dancing. When he shot them.
***
This article originally appeared at CarrieCariello.com.
