I spent over an hour looking for it. I searched in the kids' closets, in the abyss that we call the basement (where the once beloved toys go to await a yard sale or a trip to Goodwill) and in our “formal" living room” (where the toys that are still occasionally played with remain). I was determined to find the object of my search. Imagine if I were as unwavering in my cleaning and organizing as I were in my searching how much easier it would be to find said object, or any object for that matter!

I refused to give up I because I knew it was somewhere.  “It” was a bag of wooden toy blocks tucked away and long since forgotten with two teenagers and a preteen in the house. My best friend’s 1 year old was coming to play and as her "auntie", I was determined to have a fun playdate and that meant finding the missing bag of blocks among the forgotten dolls, dinosaurs and Legos.

Then, finally, I saw the purple handle sticking out from under a pile of mittens that my teenage wannabe drops on the floor due to her 8th percentile height that leaves her unable to reach the mitten bin on the top shelf. I pulled it out, scraped off the dog hair and dust bunnies (sorry sweet Peaches) and relished in my victory and dogged determination at my discovery. I put the bag with the other toys I dug out (literally) and finally went to bed.

The next day, when my friend’s beautiful girl came to play, I was ready. At first her inquisitive eyes and grabby little hands were set on the various toys that lit up and made noises. She went from item to item pushing buttons and clapping each time she pushed the magic button, so proud at her amazing discoveries. My goodness she is a delight!

As toddlers are wont to do, she quickly left any and all toys behind and went to the cabinets and drawers in the kitchen. Since my days of child proofing are long gone, I wanted to distract her with something that would not poison her. "The blocks!"

I quickly went to the bag and dumped the blocks on the floor as I sang out her name. I had no idea the impact those scattered blocks all over my family room floor would have on me. In an instant, a long forgotten memory that was tucked as far away in the darkness of my brain as the blocks were in our hall closet, hit me. Hard.

The benign wooden blocks, in various colors and shapes scattered among the light up toys, took me back 12 years. There in my memory, along with the blocks, was my son, aged 3, on the floor playing. Unlike my bestie’s daughter, he was not picking up the blocks and making sweet block music, nor was he crashing down each and every tower I built, instead he was rolling all over the blocks that lay scattered on the floor.
 
Ryan would scatter the blocks on the carpet, almost making a trail of blocks, then he would roll on top of the blocks from one end of the pile to the other, seeking sensory input that his body was unable to receive in the way you and I can. From the sharp, pointy triangles, to the smooth half-moon circles, Ryan did not discriminate. Each block provided different sensory sensations to his body, and by the giggles and smiles it was clear that those sharp and smooth edges felt glorious. 

At first I thought it was funny, but, the more I watched him, the more it worried me.  I knew this was not "normal". I remember trying to redirect him. "Ryan, look what Mommy built!" "Do you want to knock it down?" But, my son, who at times appeared deaf to his name, just continued to roll away. Not caring at all about what was the "right" or “normal” way to play with wooden blocks, Ryan found his way, and his was was “right” for him.
 
My revere was broken when my bestie's daughter yelled, “wooo” as the next block tower crashed to the ground while she clapped happily at this fun game of cause and effect. Then she picked up two blocks and clacked them together (blocks are quite musical). While she enjoyed her musical blocks, I built another tower and waited, and sure enough, CRASH, she toppled the blocks to the ground again. As I applauded her victory, in what I once believed was the “right” way to play with blocks, I longed for the chance to go back in time with my young son and roll over those blocks letting him know that his way was “right” too.
 
Yeah, I know, beating myself over the head with a bag of blocks isn’t going to change what was, but, those blocks acted as a reminder to allow my son to “play” in a way that is comfortable for him. For example, my suggestion to have an end of the year pool party for the cast in the musical as a way to increase his social opportunities, may seem “right” to me, but, it clearly does not seem “right” to him. He has no plans of playing that way. There are other ways to engage him socially without making him feel nervous and overwhelmed.
 
As a parent loving a child with autism, there is a fine line between showing your child what is “typical” and making them feel and be someone they are not.  Just like I crossed the line with those stupid blocks all those years ago, I know I have crossed it many, many more times since then. I hope that my son knows that just like blocks don’t come with instructions on how to play “right”, parenting doesn’t come with instructions either and sometimes we get it wrong.
 
Over the years, my son and I have taught each other how to play and neither way is “right”, sometimes, how we play is just different. My bestie’s beautiful girl may have played with the blocks just like I expected her to, however, when she climbed on top of the little toy table (which I also found in the bowels of my basement) that I set out for us to color on, I couldn't help but smile at the irony. This adorable neurotypical toddler did not play with the table "right", after all, tables aren't for standing on, however, climbing on top of that table felt “right” to this little daredevil more than scribbling with a tasty crayon she'd preferred to chew on than draw with. And in her mind, and mine, she was not wrong.

"Play:  engage in activity for enjoyment and recreation rather than a serious or practical purpose."

Yep. Guess I missed that twelve years ago.

I love Dr. Seuss! I mean, who doesn't? Who else, but, Dr. Seuss, gets kids to Read Across America for a day in March and gets kids to eat green eggs and ham? I can't get my kids to eat food that is suppose to be green like broccoli and lettuce, let alone food dyed green that looks like something pulled from the dark recesses of the refrigerator.

This guy wasn't a Dr., he was a wizard. Not only could Dr. Seuss rhyme better than Jay Z, he taught amazing life lessons to kids through funny, fabulous, memorable stories. No wonder he gets a National Read Across America Day for his birthday and Jay Z doesn't. Sorry, Jay Z, I'm sure you can cuddle up with your millions to make you feel better.

One of my favorite quotes from Dr. Suess was prominently displayed on our pediatrician's wall when the kids were little and I LOVED it! "Why fit in when you were born to stand out!". So true, right? Don't we all want to stand out? Be someone unique, original, different? No. Not if you are a middle school teen. The LAST thing you want is to "stand out". You want to blend in, be part of the crowd, look like all the other bewildered middle schoolers....until one day, you don't. 

Ryan just told me last week after a day of homework hell, that he doesn't like to ask for help because he feels like "everyone is looking at me because I am different". It broke my heart. We talked about how being different is cool. We talked about how everyone is different, autism or no autism, and how boring the world would be if everyone were the same, but, I knew it was falling on deaf ears. Deaf, middle school ears. 

So, as amazing as Dr. Seuss was, as amazing as his rhyming like rap still is, and as much as I still love this quote, it is not so true for the early teen years, especially if being "born to stand out" comes as a result of an autism diagnosis. So, if Dr. Seuss were still alive today, I would either text, tweet or IM him my rhyme for middle school aged kids with autism, and maybe we could sit down and enjoy some green eggs and ham while we discussed it (yeah, not a chance, not even for a signed first edition of The Cat in the Hat).  

My bust a rhyme rap would go something like this...

Sorry old doc, but this quote is a bust
when you are in middle school fitting in is a must.

With big body changes and feelings galore
it's no fun to stand out when you feel so unsure.

One day being different will make him feel proud,
but, right now as a teen he wants in with the crowd.

He knows he is "different" that much is true,
but, some days being different makes him feel blue.

Being "same" may be boring and not how he was born
and being proud of his differences makes him feel torn.

The right pants, shirts and shoes are what makes these kids cool,
but, some days his body wants comfort in school.

When kids walk the halls laughing and fitting in
he can't help but wonder, "How did they begin?".

He knows that his autism does not make him "less",
but, sometimes feeling "more" would be sure fun to test.

In chorus when he sings notes from his heart
he knows that his differences stand him apart.

But in the halls and the lunch room where kids tend to gather
he feels like an outsider where his heart doesn't matter.

When he comes home to a place where he knows that he fits
the big parts of the day slip away to just bits.

One day I know he will be proud to stand out
and I will be by his side when he stands up and shouts:

"I may not know what it is to be cool,
but, one day when I am long gone from this school
I will find a place where I belong
and prove to all others that labels are wrong."

"Different, not less" is how the quote goes
and no one knows that better than those
who wear the label "autistic" to school and beyond
but one day the labels for all will be gone.

The "cool", the "hip", the "out", the "in"
the labels all change from where we begin.
Being different will no longer cause him to pout
one day I know he will proudly stand out.

The label "autism" is only part of who you see
the only label he wants is the word "me".

"I am me, me I am
and for the times I don't understand 
I look to those who only see ME 
and not some label from a degree."

"See me not the label!" 
he is trying to shout.
And when one day you do
he will proudly stand out.

I have no doubt that one day, when the doors of middle school close behind him, Ryan will fully appreciate his unique and fascinating mind, and understand that underneath the same cool clothes "everyone is wearing", we are all different. Until then though, I believe he will continue to try and fit in, while embracing what makes him stand out. 

I'm sure Dr. Seuss would suggest I stick to blogging not rhyming, we can't all get a National Holiday to recognize our birth (sorry Jay Z). Regardless of what Dr. Seuss would have thought of my mad rhyming skills, I still wouldn't eat green eggs and ham with him. Nope. Not a chance. Not in a box. Not with a fox. Not on a boat. Not with a goat.

I see their looks. I see their stares. I see their smiles bordering on a smirk. I see their patronizing high fives. Sometimes, I wish I had a blindfold.

I hear their voices. I hear their silence. I hear the way they speak to him as if he were a young child. Sometimes, I wish I had ear plugs.

I feel my sadness. I feel my anger. I feel the ache deep in my heart. Sometimes, I wish I had no heart.

These feelings often sweep over me, and settle on my chest, directly over my heart to the point of suffocation, but, then, the feelings go as quickly as they came leaving me to breathe easy once again. Anymore, these moments and these feelings are few and far between, but, when they come, they leave a scab that I tend to pick at for days until eventually the scab heals with just a small scar that is visible only to me.

It was a hot summer day, in the oldest public building in town. A church, built in 1825, which meant, no Wifi and no air conditioning. A group of teenagers gathered at the front of the church sitting among the pews giggling, chatting and warming up their voices. At the end of the pew, against the wall, sitting alone and seemingly unaware of the buzzing activity surrounding him, sat my son, Ryan. Ryan sat quietly looking over his music preparing for the day's performance while I almost vibrated out of the pew. His sensory system, which is often so heightened, seemed unaware of all the buzzing activity going on around him. In fact, for a change, it was not my son's sensory system on edge, it was mine. 

It wasn't Ryan who wanted to bolt out that old church door to escape the feelings that overwhelmed him, it was me. As I sat in the church, with little to no air moving, my chest felt heavy. I wanted to run out of the room with my old friends Denial and Clueless, who had slid in next to me on the pew when I wasn't looking making the hot church feel even closer, to escape what my brain and my heart were feeling. So consumed with my watching, waiting and worrying for what had always been, there may have been a few moments that I missed what really was.

As parents continued to arrive and the temperature of the church continued to rise, I felt my heart beating in my chest and a trickle of sweat began forming on my brow. I watched, waited and hoped with anticipation. Would one kid talk to him? Would one kid see him? Would he talk to one kid? Would he see one kid? After all, he just spent a week with these kids at chorale camp so it was reasonable for me to get my hopes up, right? Nothing. Not even a nod, a hello, or an acknowledgement...on either side of the pew. And although my heart was pounding and my sensory system felt like it was on overdrive, Ryan looked happy, content and fine. As always, it was my problem, not his.

Once the performance began, once my son stood shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the chorale ensemble in front of the non-air conditioned church, he blended in with the others. He did not stand alone, he did not appear "different". There was no aloof stance, there was no awkward smile. There was just the music and his voice. Suddenly, I felt my heartbeat slow down and the church no longer felt so stifling.

Within the first few notes, the tears began to fall. Not his, mine. He immediately looked my way, seeing no one but me, and once he saw my smile, once he saw my tears of pride, his smile and his tears matched my own. You see, we have sat in many rooms together, the two of us, where no one saw him like I did. Where no one heard him like I did. Where no one felt him like I did. However, on this day, when his beautiful voice bounced off those church walls, I believe they all saw him, heard him and felt him as I always have. I had waited for that moment for a long, long time. Funny thing is, I don't think Ryan has.

As he finished his song, there were smiles, there were high fives, and there were "good jobs". Even after all that, a part of me still worried that their smiles, their high fives, and their "good jobs" may not have been sincere, that they may have been a bit patronizing because they saw "different", but, when I watched my boy take his bow then fight back his own tears of pride, I realized that what matters most to Ryan is how sees, how he hears and how he feels about himself. Ryan spends little time concerning himself with how others perceive him. A lesson we could all learn from him.

Had I worn my blindfold, had I brought my ear plugs, had I removed my heart, I would not have seen him, heard him or felt him and there is no worry great enough and no pain deep enough, worth missing that. As for their smiles, their high fives, and their "good jobs", they may not have been insincere or patronizing, but, even if they were, I need to take a lesson from my son and recognize who and what really matters.

Once again, Ryan showed me, it is my problem, not his and it is a problem I believe he has already solved.

Minecraft Camp and Music Camp and Chorale Auditions, oh my! These three things may not freak Dorothy out as much as lions and tigers and bears, while creeping through the forest en route to find the Wizard of Oz, but, this mom was mumbling a lot more than, "oh my" while anxiously walking among the buildings of college campuses this summer.

Regardless of my anxiety over what I might run into, when summer time rolls around, I have to find something for Ryan to do otherwise he would wind up with bed sores from lounging on his bead and he would be in search of a brain just like the Scarecrow when school rolled around again. And since I'm not a very good doctor mommy, a bloody nose makes me woozy, I'm sure my weak constitution wouldn't fair well with nursing bed sores, so I sign my boy up for camp after camp. And although there is nothing particularly scary about summer camp in general, that A Word can make a summer time walk in the park feel like a walk through a lion, tiger and bear filled forest alone, at night, wearing a tshirt that reads, "I taste good". 

Yeah sure, when it comes to summer camps, there is the fear of the unknown, the fear of what is lying around the bend. There is the "I don't know what to expect" fear that worries Ryan more than a pack of hungry lions. There is also the "what will he eat for lunch and please God say a packed lunch is allowed" that worries me more than innocently getting between a mother bear and her cub. However, what causes me the most anxiety, what makes me feel like a lost, tasty treat alone in the forest, is to tell or not to tell.

The camp packet comes in the mail in a very innocent looking brown envelope. Nothing scary at all about that. I open the envelope without so much as a drop of blood from a paper cut and I begin filling out the form.

Name:
Address:
Telephone: 
Grade:
Emergenct Contact:

Easy breezy. Nothing to worry about. Then there it is. I swear the font is bigger and bolder and shoutier.

SPECIFY ANY OF YOUR CHILD'S HEALTH PROBLEMS:

It seems like this should be easy too, right? I mean, Ryan does not have any health problems. He has no food allergies, asthma or any type of medical condition. He does not take any medication, there is no need for an Epi Pen or an inhaler. There is nothing I need to tell the camp staff...or is there? The camp form does not ask, "Does your child have a neurodevelopmental disorder?". There are no questions like, "Does your child struggle with social interaction?" or "Does your child have communication difficulties?" or "Does your child have an abhorrent fear of bugs?". Nothing. 

As I look at the questionnaire wondering why they don't include something that makes completing this section of the form as easy as "Emergency Contact" I feel my anxiety creep up on me as silently as a lion ready to pounce. I do NOT want autism to define Ryan, so I don't want to have to tell every single person he meets that he is autistic. However, if I don't tell, I know that can lead to other misperceptions, some worse than the misperception of what The A Word actually means.

If I don't tell, when he doesn't make eye contact, will they think he is not interested and that he does not care to be there? If I don't tell, and it takes him longer to respond to a question will they believe he is ignoring them or that he is rude and disprespectful? When he eats lunch alone will they believe he thinks he is better than everyone else and perceive him as standoffish? If I DO tell, will they put him in a box, a box filled with preconceived notions, misperceptions and ignorance and close the lid on him. AWEnestly, I think I would take a pack of lions and tigers and bears. Oh my.

You know when you are walking alone in the woods and you hear the underbrush crunching and imagine the worst, like a 250 pound hungry black bear heading straight for you, your adrenaline starts pumping and you prepare yourself for some terrifying encounter. As your palms get sweaty and you can feel your heart pounding through your sweat soaked tshirt, you begin forumulating a plan of what you should do first when the bear attacks with it's snarling growl bearing his razor sharp teeth. Then, in an instant, your plans are foiled and you realized you worried for nothing when a 3 pound squirrel leaps onto the path in front of you and scurries away believing you are the scary bear. Yeah, that. My fear of to tell or not to tell was as scary as a 3 pound squirrel and the fear was taken out of my hands by the only person who could.

As Ryan walked away to audition for his place in the choir at music camp, I felt the eyes of the teacher on me. I swear, I could feel his breath on the back of my neck, he was that close. All I had to do was pull this teacher aside and quickly tell him, "Oh, by the way...", but, I didn't, because Ryan quickly hugged me and blended in with the swarm of teenagers buzzing down the hallway leaving me alone in the woods with nothing, but, my own anxiety and my own preconceived notions about how Ryan's autism may impact his week at camp. 

The moment to tell had passed and all I could do was sit and wait...and text my best friend who talked me out of the woods. I texted, "He just walked down the hall with a bunch of kids...without me. I didn't tell the faculty staff member who is conducting the auditions about The A Word. I hope I didn't need to." (Insert worried faced emoticon here). My friend texted back three words, "Maybe you won't". And guess what, she was right.

I did not need to tell and not because autism disappeared that day and not because Ryan decided to tell the teacher, "I have autism", but, because the teacher could tell...on his own. After the auditions, I saw the teacher coming at me like that bear in the underbrush, I heard the crunching of sticks and I wanted to run, afraid of what he might say. The teacher apporoached with a smile and looked harmless enough when he said, "Are you Ryan's mom?" "Yes", I smiled proudly while holding bear spray behind my back...just in case. The teacher then showed me his clipboard and next to Ryan's name he had written "aut?". I smiled and nodded yes. At first, I admit, my heart fell, that "aut" was so obvious. Then, when this no longer scary looking teacher said to me, "He has a beautiful voice. What a gift to have such a beautiful tenor voice at such a young age." I dropped the bear spray.

As always, Ryan taught me that day. Although I am the one who advocates, who blogs, who preaches from the roof tops, "different, not less" sometimes I worry so much about different, I get lost in the woods, scared and alone waiting for the worst. Until this beautiful boy with his beautiful mind finds me and reminds me that I have nothing to fear. To tell or not to tell will still worry me, and leave me second guessing what I should do, but, last week proved to me that sometimes I don't have to say a word. 

Ryan is comfortable with who he is and if people can "tell" that he has autism that's ok. People can also tell when he sings that he has a beautiful voice. People can tell he is kind by the way he smiles. People can tell that he is smart by the work he does at school. As Ryan quickly approaches 14, it is not my job to tell all the time, he is learning to advocate and speak for himself. And he will be the first to tell, that autism does not, and will not, define who he is and where he is going.

And just like Dorothy, on her quest to find the great Wizard of Oz, I believe Ryan will use his courage, his heart and his brain to make his own path to get wherever he chooses to go. He will not let lions and tigers and bears and autism get in his way, no matter where he is heading. However, since old habits die hard, I will pack Ryan some ruby slippers and bear spray....just in case. Oh my.

Two funerals, three deaths, four days. No, that's not a clever name of a Hollywood movie and no, Hugh Grant was not there. "Two funerals, three deaths, four days" are six words that describe a crappy week for some people I really love.

No one likes to go to funerals. Funerals are sad. Funerals are depressing. Funerals are a reminder of our own mortality and how fleeting life really is. Even though we don't like to go to funerals, even though we don't want to go, and even though we try and contrive any excuse possible as a way not to go, most of us don something black and show up anyway because it is the "right" thing to do.

We may have ongoing battles in our head as to whether or not we should attend the funeral. "Well, I didn't know him that well, but, I use to work with his wife ten years ago." Or "I can't go, I have to ______ (insert any word here from "work", to "skydive", to "wrestle alligators") and the family probably won't expect me to go anyway." And my own personal, I hate funerals go to, "I think it's just for close family and friends.". Whatever battle wages on inside my head, "supporting the family" usually wins out for me, and off I go, dread in my heart, tissues in my hand.

As I attended my second funeral in four days last week, I watched the Funeral Director who has officiated every funeral I have attended since I was a child, and I wondered, how does he do it? Such sadness, day in and day out. Grieving families and friends tending to matters their hearts want nothing to do with, but, handling the affairs anyway because their brain insists they must. I guess Funeral Directors recognize what most of us try not to think about, that death is a part of life. Death is inevitable. Death happens to all of us. I'm not implying that Funeral Directors have a lack of compassion, in fact, to do that job, I think you would need to be very compassionate, but, I think you also have to see death in a much more concrete, literal way.

I believe like a funeral director, Ryan gets the black and white version of death. Death is a part of life. Death is a part of nature's life cycle. Death is inevitable. Death is gone. The ambiguity, the abstract ideas of death, well, that is much harder for Ryan to understand.

Last week, I had to share with Ryan the sad news of the death of our dear, kind, next door neighbor who always happily celebrated Ryan's triumphs with me and frequently eased my worried mother's heart, at his setbacks. Through my tears, I watched as Ryan's brain took in the information then he quietly laid his head on his knees. As tears pooled in the corner of his eyes, there were no questions, there were no words exchanged, there was just quiet understanding.

Later, when I asked Ryan if he wanted to attend the funeral services, with total panic and horror glimmering through his own watery eyes, he yelled, "No, I can't handle it Mom. My body can't handle it. Please don't make me go.". I calmed Ryan down and assured him that he did not have to go. Relief washed over his face, as his body visibly relaxed. Ryan told me, in no uncertain terms, that he decided he would "never attend another one of those for the rest of his life." AWEnestly, who can blame him? Wouldn't that be the choice we all would make, if it were as simple as not wanting to go?

Understanding and processing death is difficult for all of us. When you add the black and white, concrete, literal thinking of someone with autism, processing and understanding death is even tougher.  

In the movie, Temple Grandin, produced by HBO, Temple (played AWEsomely by the fabulous Claire Danes), asks the question most of us at some point and time have wondered, "Where do they go?". After seeing her favorite horse at boarding school die, Temple asks her teacher, "Where do they go?". The question comes up again, after watching cattle die at a slaughter house, "It was here, and now it's gone. Where does it go?". And yet again, at the funeral of her beloved teacher, Temple asks her mother, "Do you know where they go?". To which her mother says, "No". At that point, Temple decides to leave the funeral because in her concrete, literal thinking way, she declared, "I said goodbye when I saw him. He's not there. I've got him in my mind.". What a perfectly AWEsome, yet literal way to process death.

Many believe that people with autism do not feel empathy or sympathy. I have watched my son cry for people and pets who have died, and I have watched him shed tears and try and protect those who are left to live on, heartbroken in their grief. Ryan feels sympathy, how he displays his sympathy may not be what you expect though. 


Ryan's literal mind struggles with terms such as, "passed away" or "lost" and overhearing such words, in what appears a cold, rude manner, Ryan may say, "They are not lost, they are dead.". "Passed away" is ambiguous and "lost" is not "dead". These words surrounding death, make no sense to him. 

Although many tears are shed at a funeral or memorial service for someone who has died, there often are smiles and laughter over good times and memories being recalled by loved ones. That laughter may confuse Ryan since after all, death is gone, death is final, death is sad, so why are people laughing? The emotions that go along with grief can be confusing for someone who struggles to process the emotions of others and who struggles to read the various facial expressions and body language that are part of such an emotional time.

The two funerals Ryan has attended, I worried. I worried in Ryan's confusion to understand death, that he may say something inappropriate, like "Where do they go?". I worried that Ryan may behave in a way others would deem rude or disrespectful, like scripting a television show or video game in a silly voice rather than offering heartfelt condolences in his Ryan voice. There is a lot of hugging and touching at such a sad time, and Ryan does not care to be hugged by strangers. All of these things could lead others to believe that Ryan was demonstrating less than funeral appropriate behavior.

You see that confusion, that type of behavior, those comments may be acceptable if demonstrated by a young child, but, since you can't "see" autism, when such "inappropriate" or "wrong" behavior is displayed by someone who is "old enough to know better", it's hard as parent not to show others judging Ryan how "wrong" they are, even at a funeral. This is why I worried. Fortunately, at both funerals, Ryan proved me wrong and did his best to be patient, kind and sympathetic.

For many people when a loved one dies, religious and spiritual beliefs come into play, and these belief are equally as vague and abstract as the concept of death and dying. To try and explain a soul or heaven, something such a visual, literal person can't "see", is hard for them to understand. "If Jesus came back to life, why can't so and so?". "If God loved so and so, then why did He let them die?". Questions difficult to answer, answers difficult to understand.

I may not be able to answer all the questions that are circling in Ryan's brain when it comes to death, and I may not ever be able to answer the big question, "Where do they go?" in a way Ryan can fully understand, so rather than focus on where they "went", I try and focus on where they "are". I try to explain to my visual boy, with his photographic memory, that where those we lost are, is in our mind. We can still see them through pictures our brain took when we think back to a happy memory we have. And recalling those pictures, helps us miss them a little bit less. As I explained this, I watched my son's face light up, recalling the pictures he has stored in his amazing brain, of our beloved neighbor who always greeted Ryan with a warm smile, regardless of how many times she was ignored in return. I watched the confusion and sadness slowly fade away, being replaced with understanding and joy....and a picture in his mind.

I am ill-equipped to answer, "Where do they go?", however, I am equipped to answer where they "are". I can remind Ryan of all the places our friend or family member had been, of all the places we went together and of the all the good times we shared. I can assure Ryan that no matter how much time passes, we can always "see" them in the pictures lovingly stored in our mind and "feel" them in the love we have in our heart. Isn't knowing where they "are" comforting to our grieving, sad heart? 

As with so many things in life, even when it comes to death, trying to help Ryan and his AWEsome brain understand something so troublesome, I wind up being the one learning from him.