Updated:2024-12-11 02:52 Views:94
“You are a ghost,” he slurred, whiskey glass trembling in his hand. My son’s words stung, but I saw the pain and depression behind them. I had been away caring for his mother before she passed. Generations of addiction haunted us both. He wrestled with demons etched in our family’s history, helping others while losing his own battle. I watched, heart heavy, as anger clouded his sensitive, autistic mind. “All that matters is that I love you, and I’m here,” I said gently. His eyes softened, and the next sip was smaller but not small enough to save him.— V. Ramana Dhara
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“How would you survive a zombie apocalypse?” My answer is reflexive. “I wouldn’t. I’d walk into the fray and let them tear me to shreds.” He knows this already — how I feel about plane crashes on desert islands, deadly viral pandemics, cataclysmic natural disasters that cast the world into windy, frozen mayhem. He nods. “I’ll remember to hold you tight when the half-dead come calling.” I roll my eyes. He smiles, looks back at the news, holds my hand as the world burns. Humor to counter despair. Come what may, we both know we’ll never run from one another. — Peri Brimley
ImageThe first photo taken of us, eight years ago in Salt Lake City, Utah.Getting a Handle on ThingsHe house-sits my one-bedroom apartment. Unobserved and overwhelmed, I’ve let my lightbulbs and oil go unchanged. The microwave handle fell off three years ago. At midnight, he picks me up from the airport, then sleeps on my couch. In the morning, he gives me a tour, improvements announced on blue tape. “Try me!” on the light switch; “Well, lookee here” on the new fridge dial. A pool noodle has been rigged as a microwave handle. He leaves, taking my to-do list with him. Life feels less overwhelming (and much more fun) when labeled by my father’s blue-tape love. — Alex Groblewski
ImageMy father’s replacement microwave handle.‘The Awe of Unknowing’We’re both autistic, obsessed with art and poetics. When I was his age, I knew I could love anybody, any label. Gender similarly didn’t make sense: the rules, the roles. Like a fingerprint, gender expression is everyone’s personal, unique maze. I told my trans teenager as much, and he said, “So you’re not exactly trans, but you’re not not trans.” I told him the only thing I truly identify with is being thrilled at the awe of unknowing, of evolving, which just means loving myself the same way I love him or anyone else. — Asha Dore
ImageExploring the shoreline with my son, 12 years ago.See more Tiny Love Stories at nytimes.com/modernlove. Submit yours at nytimes.com/tinylovestories.
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