Will You Talk Then?

I don’t often talk about God or heaven or religion on this blog. I don’t because the few times I have…people yell at me. Or it makes people feel uncomfortable.

And I don’t want to do that. People can believe whatever they want to believe.

So, I made the decision to not openly talk about religion.

But I will tell you, that I went through a period where I was angry at God. I didn’t understand why my son was picked to have autism. It didn’t feel fair to him. To us. To me.

I felt alone. I felt isolated. I felt scared.

Then, I was angry at him because the weight of a life long disability felt like too much. More specifically, the worry about my son’s care after I was dead.

How was I going to handle leaving Cooper? How would I know he was safe?

But, most of that was years ago.

I am in a good place now. A place of progress. Of acceptance. Of understanding.

But I do have one question that nags on me. One that crosses my mind often.

And it all started with a dream I had a little over a year ago.

I was walking along a bridge. It was very high up.

I was looking over the edge. I remember I wasn’t scared.

I felt really peaceful.

I actually felt the wind on my face.

It was warm. I was laughing. Like in a movie that is playing a scene in slow motion.

And even though it’s been over a year since I had this dream, I vividly remember the colors.

The blues and the greens. It was so bright.

And then I heard talking. A little voice. Asking me questions.

Like I said, it’s been a year, so sadly I don’t remember what the questions were.

But I remember wondering whose voice I was hearing. I was on a bridge. Up high. Over the bluest water I had ever seen.

Who could possibly be up there with me.

I looked down.

And it was my son Cooper.

He was smiling. He was laughing.

And then he asked me a question. So casually. So calmly. Like it wasn’t the biggest deal in the world.

His voice was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.

And even though it was a dream, I remember being so unbelievably shocked that he was talking.

I bent down. And for the first time ever, we had a conversation.

My son and I.

I remember how calm he was. Which is strange.

My son is never calm. His body is always moving. Most hugs involve me wrestling him into my embrace. He is always jumping and rolling.

He could never be on a bridge. Or near water.

Not safely anyways.

I remember my hands were free. I wasn’t frantically trying to wrangle him in. Or keep him safe.

And we talked.

We sat on a bridge. My son and I. And we had an effortless conversation.

I remember I kept looking around thinking…’This is finally happening.’

And then I woke up.

Suddenly.

Abruptly.

I was hot. And sweaty. I was angry. I started crying.

I wanted to go back. I didn’t want to be awake. I wanted to hear him talk.

I wanted to ask him what his favorite color is. I wanted to ask him why he loves trains so much. And why he stuffs treasures under our couch.

I wanted to know if he was happy. I wanted to say I was sorry for all the mistakes I’d made.

I wanted to tell him I loved him. And hear him say it in return.

I wanted to hear him so ‘mom.’

I wanted to be in that beautiful place with him forever.

Later that day, as I sat on the couch, I psychoanalyzed the dream.

It hit me. We were in heaven. Or my version of heaven anyways.

My son was calm. He was at peace. He was happy.

I had that dream over a year ago. I haven’t dreamt of him talking since. Who knows why?

Maybe to protect my heart.

But since that day, I’ve had one nagging question.

When we get to heaven, will he talk then?

I think about it often.

I’m hoping that I’m there long before him. And when he arrives, as a grey haired old man who has lived a long, happy and fulfilling life, I hope he comes and finds me and says, ‘Hi Mom. I’ve missed you.’

What’s so odd about all of this is I feel like on the surface I am truly okay with him not speaking. I’ve felt the feelings. I’ve dealt with the grief. I’ve accepted that he may never speak verbally to me.

But my subconscious seems to have other thoughts.

I guess, to make it through, I NEED to believe that there is a place and time that we will have a conversation.

I’m looking forward to it kid.

Until then, I’m listening.

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