The Last First Day

Normally, I’d sleep until the last minute. After all these years, the first school day isn’t much different from the last, but this morning is unique. My youngest child is starting his final year, and sleep eluded me.

I gave up and make my way downstairs where I pick up his backpack and check it one more time. Spiral notebooks, pencils, pens, markers, everything packed and ready.

Ian couldn’t comprehend our excitement when he started preschool at age 3. We showed him his supplies and talked about school unceasingly. He wouldn’t speak for another two years, but he understood the word “school,” and when the bus came that morning, he was more ready than Sandi or I.

Viewed as an emergency case following his diagnosis with autism spectrum disorder, he started school on a cold, February morning. We bundled him up, slipped on his backpack that came down to his knees, and walked him and James out to the bus.

For the next 13 years, August meant back-to-school with everything new except the nerves. Now, he is starting his senior year, probably his last of formal education.

His future after school worries me. Will he be able to work or is he too disabled? What about a family? Will he be able to find and maintain a relationship? What about parenthood? Will I be able to hold his child in my arms and take a grandparent’s joy in that first smile?

Climbing the stairs, I open his door, gaze on his face, and a wave of emotion surges through me. He’s so young with no idea of what life can deal him. And I’m so powerless to shield him after graduation.

I place my hand on his shoulder and give him a gentle shake. “Ian, it’s time to wake up.”

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.