Thirty-nine minutes
of AUsome.

One of my favorite memories of James happened at the Massachusetts RMV.

We waited 39 minutes. And for that entire wait, a security guard kept my son company, entertained him, and showed him the kind of warmth that stays with a mother long after an errand is over.

There was an impromptu dance party. Right there. At the Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles.

The usual seriousness of the place could wait.

I can’t remember whether there was actual music. Some RMV Muzak drifting through the room, maybe. A cell phone playing somewhere. Or perhaps they were dancing to some shared, unspoken groove.

And does it even matter?

I remember the two of them. Whatever the music was, or wasn’t, they had found each other.

I love looking at these photographs. James in his red shorts and blue shoes. The guard in his uniform, his badge still hanging at his waist. The tiled floor. The waiting-room chairs. The signs telling everybody where to go and what to have ready.

And in the middle of all that ordinary, official business: these two.

An arm goes up. Another follows. They turn toward each other. The next movement becomes another invitation, another response. James is right there in the exchange, bringing his own movement and attention to it.

Few words passed between them. Yet watching them, I felt that everything that mattered in that moment was being communicated.

The world isn’t always this AUsome. I wish it were.

A family can love its life deeply and still need the world to do better by it. I know both of those feelings. I can treasure this memory and still wish that being welcomed so wholeheartedly felt more ordinary.

In a life shaped in part by profound autism, so much thought goes into helping other people understand what James needs. Then someone comes along who takes an interest in him, finds a way to connect, and keeps showing up in that connection. For the length of a wait. For the length of a dance.

Those people become part of our family’s story.

This man gave James his attention throughout those 39 minutes. There was affection in it. Playfulness. A willingness to be a little silly in a room where people generally have other things on their minds. And James had something to give him, too. The photographs hold their back-and-forth.

The people we meet are among the most profoundly AUsome parts of this life. Some stay. Some share a small stretch of it with us, and we carry that stretch for years.

I hope this guard knows how much those minutes meant. I hope he knows that, somewhere, a mother still looks at these photographs and remembers how warmly he welcomed her son.

There are so many things I want for James as he moves through the world. Friendship. Affection. The freedom to enjoy himself. People who notice what he is offering and respond.

I got to watch that happen at the RMV.

Thirty-nine minutes. Very few words. One of my favorite memories ever.