Sundays too my father got up earlyand put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,then with cracked hands that achedfrom labor in the weekday weather madebanked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.When the rooms were warm, he’d call,and slowly I would rise and dress,Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the coldand polished my good shoes as well.What did I know, what did I knowof love’s austere and lonely offices?
– “Those Winter Sundays,” Robert Hayden
I woke up at 4:45 a.m. to the sound of my cat having what is either
an epileptic seizure or a transient ischemic attack, and ever since
then, I have had no intention of writing for Autistics Speaking Day
today. My day seemed to have nothing whatsoever to do with the annual
festival of Autistic people speaking for ourselves, a festival founded
in direct response to the theories and rhetoric that insist that to be
unable to speak for oneself is autism.
But then. I’m autistic; this is my day; why not speak? Sufficient unto each day is the relevance thereof, and all that.
Read the rest here!
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