“I. . .  WANT. . . book.” Coulter struggles to get the words out of his mouth as they get tangled inside. At the age of eight he is beginning to grasp the concept of verbalizing his wants, something his younger sister has been doing for years. Coulter repeats after me “I…want…Truck book.” Once with book in hand, he begins to flip rapidly through the worn cardboard pages humming “Yellow Submarine” to himself, sometimes mumbling the words. He will tap the pages with his petite bony fingers, leaning his body toward the pages so he can rub the texture against his baby smooth cheeks. From time to time he will look up and smile or grab my hand. He uses simple gestures to demonstrate his love for others rather than words that get jumbled in his mouth. Randomly, he will jump up from sitting still and run to a corner or wall, pressing his ear deep into the structure listening with a unique fascination to whatever is inside. Up the stairs his feet run with a delicacy not many young boys posses. He waits for me at the top of the stairs, grabs my hand only to let go seconds later. “Jump trampoline!”

I follow him out the back, through the swinging wood door on the porch, which is unlocked on this rare occasion, down the stairs and into the shaded backyard. His yard is a dream for boys and girls of all ages. The first time I saw it I was amazed by the three jungle gym sets attached by monkey bars and wood columns from which swings dangled. There is a different, magical, Peter Pan-like world hidden amongst the branches of the Oak and Holly trees in the back right corner of the Hemingways’ yard. This is Coulter’s world where he knows every curve of wood by memory. There is a vast array of textures providing non-stop fun for his articulate fingers. The covers of tree branches allow shelter from the hot sun.

Up and down our bodies go as we jump in unison. Sometimes Coulter would lay his small body across the taut black canvas and laugh with great amusement as I jumped over him, propelling his light body into the air. Simple things like this bring such great joy into his life. He is able to remind me how children could once be content without constantly sitting in front of a glowing computer or television screen. When he needed a break he would run to the swings. “Push?” he asks, I would then prompt him with “I want push.” My constant reminders never upset him. Somehow he is able to understand that I am trying to help him communicate with others and shows his gratitude by repeating my slow spoken words. Higher and higher he goes, into the clouds of imagination. Kicking his shoes off, feeling the unusual sensation of air rushing through his toes, he is able to enjoy the moments when his body is not cramping. He wants me to swing next to him or he is in my lap as we enjoy the thrill together. The importance of friendship and company are great to Coulter, it does not take much to gain his trust. As much as he loves to be with his friends, he also enjoys his independence.

At a park full of strange people and sounds he stays close, pressing his body to mine, sometimes causing me to lose balance. His neck bends and shoulders rise allowing him to press one ear against a shoulder blocking out the noise. Strange sounds escape his mouth, blocking out the dangerous unknown. Trying to crawl under my jacket he slowly builds up the courage to go join the other children. At first we go side-by-side, trying out the new obstacles together. Soon I am standing alone watching as he plays.

Running around in the wood chips, his body moves swiftly around invisible objects like he is dodging an opponent in a sport that requires quick reflexes. He is able to block out the things that have the potential to scare him. Once familiar with his surroundings, Coulter relaxes and goes about his activities undisturbed by others. On occasion this can be problematic, he does not realize the little girl on the seesaw is playing and he has to wait his turn. He will go and get on the seesaw with her, either believing she is a new friend and a safe person because she is in a place safe to him, or not comprehending that she is real at all and just part of the toy. It is hard to tell what goes on in his complex mind. Knowing I am with the boy who just invaded his little girl’s space, the father gives me one of those “you are not really going to let your boy get away with that!” look. I had no intention of doing so and was already on my way to explain to Coulter he had to wait his turn. He is a real person with real emotions and actions and has to learn just like any other child the rules of the playground. Calmly I walk over to him and lovingly place my hand on his shoulder, lowering my body to his eye level, I say “Coulter you MUST wait your turn,” putting the emphasis on the key trigger word “must.” Understanding fully that I meant he had to get up and wait, he began to moan and resist. The girl’s father then realized that something was not quite right with the boy, looked at me with pity, got his daughter and walked away.

For that one instance I was thankful Coulter was not able to pick up on the condescending looks of others; a quick shot of anger flashed through my body. I could not believe the judgement of others. Thinking back a few years prior, I relaxed remembering the thoughts that I used to have before I began spending time with people who had special needs. In no way was Coulter a burden, more than anything he was a blessing, even when he was experiencing great pain.

When he has pain, Coulter first pulls off his shirt over his head exposing his bare chest and ribs while arching his back. “Medcin,” he’ll say. His groaning becomes almost unbearable. I share in his pain, hurt with him, but there is close to nothing I can do to help. I leave him in the family room by the wood stove to get the liquid that sooths his cramps. He wails in absolute agony while jumping from the futon to the over-stuffed beanbag. I can hear him clearly in the other room; I rummage quickly through the kitchen cabinets, struggling with some of the locks. I see the turquoise bottle containing his chalk-like medicine.

No one should have to go through such pain on a daily basis. Carefully I take out the bottle so as not to knock over any other medication. I walk over to him, calm him down enough so he can stand still while he swallows the substance. Together we sit on the couch, by now his pants and socks are off, his body is rid of the confining material. I gently place both my hands on his lower abdomen, pushing down applying pressure. As he begins to feel better I coax him to put his clothes back on. We begin to play and look through books. As quickly as the pain came, it was gone for the time being. That is how things go with Coulter, one moment he will be sitting contentedly, the next in great pain. At times a mischievous smile will creep onto his face, filling his eyes with a profound joy you find yourself dying to be a part of.  

Coulter is full of surprises, some good and some not so great. He is obedient with a mind of his own. He will pass gas and look up with a grin, knowing what he did was funny, just like any other 8-year-old. He loves and loves to be loved. Everyday he works hard and never gives up. This speechless boy has much to say, there is much to be learned from his actions. Coulter Heminway was born with autism; my world has not been the same since I met this magical child.