Whatever Dared Touch Their Bones

Was it courage or insolence?

Welcome to my newsletter, Firelight. I’m Heather—a poet, essayist, and autism advocate. I live with my husband and two sons, the older of whom has nonverbal autism. Much of what I write is an effort to advocate for my son by translating our private world for those outside of it.

Since my 29th birthday or so, my dad has razzed me about my age—no matter what it is. With my 40th coming later this year, he’s been in peak form. I think he expects me to roast him back, but I don’t, so then he turns the question on himself: “What’s worse, though—being forty or having a daughter who’s forty?” The last time he razzed me—the night before the Tennessee ice storm hit, a night we dined on stew and Dutch oven bread, then played three rounds of Secret Hitler—I testified: “I am a soul! I am not an age!” My mom “amened” me, codifying my victory.

Aging has never bothered me. In fact, I’ve always wanted to be older. When I was twelve, for example, I never told anybody I was twelve. I was “almost thirteen.” That particular adage—never ask a lady her age—has always seemed silly to me. I am who I am, gray hair or brown. I have no problem telling anybody that I’m almost forty. I feel almost forty—and it feels earned, like a medallion for forty dragons tamed.

The only part of aging that sends honest-to-goodness chills down my spine is the thought of leaving my autistic son behind. Can’t we clasp hands and board a ship to the Undying Lands together? The answer, as far as I can tell, is no. My son needs help with every single thing he does: getting a shower, getting dressed, getting ready for bed. He can’t cook a meal for himself. He can’t brush his teeth without assistance. The list goes on. When I am dead, my son will most likely need strangers on a payroll to care for him. They won’t know him as our family knows him. They may not see him as we see him—a bluebird caught in a chimney, trapped between worlds.

---

At the start of February, I attended a two-day writing retreat with my friend, Renee. On the second day, there was some discussion about readership—numbers, engagement, and that sort of thing. Some retreatgoers felt that we shouldn’t get too caught up in numbers. We should be faithful to the work God puts in front of us, regardless of results. On one hand, I agree with that. On the other, I want everyone in the world to know about nonverbal autism. I want lawmakers to know about nonverbal autism. I want educators to know about nonverbal autism. I want clergy to know about nonverbal autism. “You’re bearing witness,” Renee offered up. I’ve thought of her words often since then—I’m bearing witness.

I’m still figuring out how to bear witness while respecting my son’s autonomy and privacy. For the most part, I err on the side of disclosing less. Often, I disclose through poetry and poetry alone. Poetry feels like a safe medium for sharing secrets. In poetry, I can thread feelings into similes and questions into metaphors.

Recently, Solid Food Press published my poem, “The Lost Boys of Rizpah.” Originally, the poem began as an exploration of autism advocacy. The poem was very important to me on a personal level, but I couldn’t grab hold of a broader, more universal narrative. Later, I came across the story of Rizpah in 2 Samuel 21:1-14. Her fidelity and defiance resonated—a fearlessness and softness to which I’d so often aspired. From there, I reshaped the poem from Rizpah’s perspective. Through her story, I am telling my own. I am bearing witness.

The Lost Boys of Rizpah

After 2 Samuel 21:1-14

Two truths and a lie:
One, my sons are dead.
Two, you swore to protect us.
Three, I’m not angry about it.

My primal screams as peripheral
as the purring of caged hens—
soft sheets of water collapsing
against stone. I wanted the rain
to fall, to feel whatever dared touch
their bones. I felt closest to them
in bursts of hail—the hawks,
then, too cowardly to circle.

I was Ingrid Bergman,
staring down the male lead
while gas lights flickered.

I collected stones
for many schemes.
I threw them at snakes,
at jackals. I made beds
out of boulders, fanning
sackcloth over any point.
I went above and beyond
the pain you assigned.

Under the blitz of cutting rain,
I found it: gasping, half-drowned,
but somehow still pulsing with life.
Its silver peals echoed through
strongholds, a clanging revolt.
Was it courage or insolence?
On that, no one agreed.

I was prepared to be the third body
on that hill when you rode up
on a mule. Such violet nights
I nursed the bones now white
against your chest. It all seems
a fable now: the hours I held fast
to those wriggling bones, asking
how I’d ever lay them down.

(You can listen to a recording of the poem and read a Q&A about the poem here.)

---

The truth is, we’re all bluebirds caught in a chimney, trapped between worlds (Hebrews 13:14). My son’s inattention to the things of this world is a daily reminder of that. His view makes my own clearer: I trace the skies for a city that is to come.

Thanks for reading Firelight. If this edition resonated with you, I’d be honored if you shared it.