I wrote this poem in 2019 when I was reflecting on a past memory of my oldest son playing with Legos shortly after he was diagnosed with autism in 2003. At the time I was 22 and absolutely clueless at what his future would look like and it scared me. I was also clueless as to how to help him but knew that it would be up to bear the responsibility of making the right choices for so he could succeed. Being a parent in itself is rough; but being a parent a child with special needs is a different kind of rough.

My oldest son in 2003

Legos are scattered everywhere,
as he tries to find pieces that perfectly fit
Legos of different sizes, shapes, and colors
waiting to be put together by a little perfectionist
Legos that help create the universe
that swirls around in his head
Legos that help bridge him to others
Legos that make him seem almost typical
to outsiders
Legos-beautiful-legos
Hard to decipher
the puzzle of what the pieces will become
just little its creator

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