November 26, 2007 was a quiet night at my father's house. We were just ready to go to be. My father came in the room and turned on the lights "The baby was born!" He told us. "I just got a message on my phone!" He rushed in the room with his phone, "listen" he said. He played the message, it went like this "Hey boys, it's aunt Amy, just wanted to tell you the baby has been born, his name is Walker, he is seven pounds and you can visit him tomorrow, Love you guys. Bye" We were so excited. We talked about what he would look like, We finally went to sleep. We arrived at the hospital in the morning. I got to the second floor. There we ran to the room. I opened the door to find my mom with the baby in her arms. I picked him up and looked in his deep blue eyes.
Years passed. Walker was now two years old. He still hadn't said a word. He hadn't sat up or crawled or even walked. I thought it was weird because I had never heard of a two year old child who couldn't say "mommy" yet. Mom called it autism. I learned that it's when a child acted younger than his or hers age. It also happens with adults of all ages. Sometimes I wonder if he will ever walk. He must have a tough time. Sometimes I sing to him. When I sing to him I sing "Your not perfect" by Laurie Berkner. The song explains that you may not be perfect but people still love you if you are not. To me, Walker is more than just a child, he's a gift. I love my baby brother and I always will. I will always have him in my mind and when I think of him I think of that song. That's what music means to me.
** This was an essay contest for music class in school. Dylan was able to read this over the loud speaker at school. I often worry how my other children are adjusting to the demands of having a special needs sibling. Dylan wears his heart on his sleeve and is able to express himself so well. I find it interesting that he calls Walker's handicap autism even though he is not. I guess this is how a nine year old makes sense of it all.
That may be the most beautiful thing. Ever.
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