Pale Blue Letters

I wanted to share with you my favorite story. It is a story from the book Chocolate for a Mother's Heart, it was written by Michelle Wallace Campanelli. Those of you who know me will understand what it has meant to me.


Babysitting my friend's son is always an experience. Jeb has been diagnosed with some autistic characteristics, but it's not his disorder that gets to me-it's the way other people react to him that can ruin my day.

Jeb is different. He isn't interested in demonstrations of affection and rarely looks anyone in the eye. If you speak too loudly, he'll cover his ears and scream at the top of his lungs. Touch him and he'll cry out as if in great pain.

We walk to the park every day, but not to play with the other children; he doesn't enjoy making friends. He only likes hanging out on one particular swing. he'll sway for hours, rocking back and forth. Even though he has an expensive play center of his own in his backyard, it's only on this one swing in the middle of the local playground that he'll play.

Since I've been babysitting him for years, I know what he enjoys, and I allow him almost everything that he wants: the walk to the park, the swing, and his favorite box of crayons when we get home in the evenings. Drawing and writing are usually how he spends most of his nights. He invariably chooses a worn, pale-blue crayon. Then I tuck him into bed and read to him from one of my poetry collections until he falls asleep.

Jeb has never told me he loves me, but rarely does he get into trouble. If he starts to get agitated in public, all I have to do is hand him something to write with; he'll instinctively sit down and stay busy, penning nonsensical words and doodles.

Today at the park I had a mother pull her own child away from Jeb so the child wouldn't "catch" what Jeb has. Another father inquired, "What's wrong with him?" As always, I avoided responding.

When I brought Jeb home, I found his mother reduced to tears. She is often like this. The stress of raising a child who never shows affection tends to wear on a mother after a while.

I sat down at the kitchen table beside her. "What's the matter, Shara?"

Sniffling, she wept. "I gave some of Jeb's papers to an autistic specialist to try and figure out what's going on in his mind, what he's trying to say."

I patted her hand, thinking those scribbles and pictures weren't anything anyone could understand.

"Dr. Matovski told me the pictures were exceptional and increasingly intricate. He said Jeb's words are poetry! The letters and sentences are just backwards!"

"Really?" I gasped. "You mean the stuff Jeb writes actually makes sense!"

She gulped in ragged breaths, pulling out on of Jeb's pieces of construction paper from her purse. "Look."

I glanced down over Jeb's pale-blue crayon scribbles and noticed there were words underneath where the doctor, a pediatric neurologist, must have transcribed.

In the darkness I do lie
Liking the quiet and the night
As she reads a poem of a guy
Who's not afraid of doing what's right.

In my heart I yearn to be
As strong as the hero's will
Whose spirit was unfettered and free
But whose love for women was grander still.

Yet my love hides within my soul
Afraid to break the chains
But withholding my emotions has taken its toll
And for my caretakers only heartache remains.

So to these women I write this poem
To let them know how happy I am
Their love is greater than anything I've known
And it's helping me to become a man.

-Jeb


Together, we collapsed into tears, barely able to comprehend that all this time, Jeb has been feeling fulfilled and appreciating us, loving us.

We were still embracing one another and crying when the phone rang.

"Hello," my friend answered.

"Hello, Shara. This is Dr. Matovski. I just finished transcribing the rest of Jeb's poetry. he surely has some savant abilities. Some of these are quite fascinating. Would you mind if I showed them to a friend of mine, Frank Paterno?"

"Frank Paterno?"

I heard the name and knew he owned a local publishing house.

"Sure," Shara answered. "But first send me more information explaining how you deciphered Jeb's poetry. I want to be able to read them for myself now."

"Of course, Shara. I hope your very proud of your son. He's a very well-adjusted, talented young boy." Dr. Matovski told her.

It's been over a year since that night, and Jeb has now had two poems published in a book made to help raise funds for handicapped children. I'm not sure which his mother is more proud of, his being a poet or just being a "happy" little boy.

I believe it is the latter.

And for me, well, I remain their babysitter. We still have our daily routine of walking to the park, playing on the swing set, writing, drawing, and reading poetry at night. But now when a mother or father asks me what's wrong with him. I remember the pale-blue letters and say, "Nothing. He's perfect."