the nature of control

gorgeous morning. garden busting. the trees, shrubs and flowers innately know when and how and what to do. inside the house my agitated child spins, shrieks, whines, stomps and grinds. i don't know why. he has no way of letting me know. perhaps he has no clue as to the whys of his woes.

these greens know just when to blossom; their purples and reds show their glory in concert. the whites, too. they close themselves up when it's too hot or cold. drop their spent petals when when their blooms begin to decay, when they are done with their ravishing display.

my son on the other hand cannot control much of what he does. he paces. wanders. seeks the sun, simultaneously wilting in its embrace. he is virtually unable to void his bowels without manufactured aid. cannot use a spoon. at a loss to ask for help.

perhaps my thirst to control nature stems from what i cannot sway. i dig and plant and mulch and prune. i bonsai shrubs and trees to keep them small. i clip limbs to open things up.

i wish so much to stop his seizures. i wish my boy could speak to me. i wish he felt better than he does much of the time. mostly agitated, irritated, restless, manic, achy, weak, frustrated, hurting, seizing. he lives in a drought of health and wellness. forever stressed by what his brain does and what his body cannot do. his mind's white matter never fully formed, the bud of it pinched or crimped somehow, never to fully bloom.

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