Evensong

As my autistic young adult son prepares for bed I am reminded of a contented clergyman setting up for evening services. He changes to his night-time vestments and walks from his vestry -- his bedroom -- to the living room bookcases, humming and murmuring to himself, a beatific smile on his gentle face, engrossed in a ritual gathering of materials, essentially oblivious to the outer world, though he amiably responds if spoken to. Invariably the centerpiece is a large dictionary, one of many he has accumulated, and usually there is a comic-book collection of some sort, anything from Zits to Garfield, the selection depending, I suppose, on the tone to be conveyed.

He brings three ancient kids’ boardbooks, always the same ones, torn and tattered after years of hard reading, essentially stacks of loose pages and dog-eared covers. He doesn’t read those books anymore, he uses them as starting points for conversation, the pictures and other apocrypha recalling long-established traditions, potent symbols of his inner world. Talismans, really, their meaning transcending their wearied earthly presence.

When he reaches his room again – always keeping the light on – he arranges the boardbooks in a half-circle on the floor. He sits on the bed, humming to himself as he browses the dictionary, then drifts off to sleep, the dictionary tucked half beneath his pillow.

Services are over for the night. Somehow I sleep better for having shared in them.