It's busy.

He walks ahead of me, bouncing slightly on his toes as he weaves between tables.

Paintbrushes in hand, people chatter all around us. Shelves of unfinished pottery line the walls. Plates, mugs, small dishes for jewelry.

Jack.

Jack-a-boo.

Jack-attack.

He made the reservation weeks ago. He planned it for our visit. Here, in this city where he lives, we are celebrating his birthday.

His sister Rose is home from college for the summer, and at the last minute, agreed to join us.

He approaches you.

"My sister is here. Now we are four people, not three."

I saw you glance at him. Hesitate.

It happens a lot. People often glance at my son. Then they look away, unsure of what to make of him.

They don’t know what to make of his movements, his downcast eyes, his curtailed speech.

The familiar pit in my stomach returns.

I pause.

I resist the urge to jump in, to soothe, to suggest.

At twenty-two, it's his turn to choose the melody.

The truth is, for the longest time, I thought this boy may sit in our house forever—an exotic bird in a gilded cage of his own choosing.

Now, he lives hundreds of miles away, in a supported community with other kids like him.

My worry runs so deep, it’s as though it’s hardly there at all.

The world has much to learn.

So does Jack.

Can each learn it in time?

I believe in him.

I believe in second chances, and smiles of goodwill, and beautiful swirls of paint on canvas.

I believe because I have to believe. I have no other choice.

I have no other choice because one day I will die. And as much as this idea stops me in my tracks, it is true.

This is me, small and afraid.

For now, I live bravely.

Bravely, I live.

I have no choice but to look to the sky and see sun instead of storms.

I hear notes of music and listen for birds gone free.

It's springtime now, and the trees are green with newness.

Newness. This is the light to which I hold tightly. There is always newness—even in the familiar pit, the change in our reservation, the cluster of paintbrushes vibrant with color.

"Great, just give us a minute, okay? We'll find an extra seat."

He nods.

I smile.

Thank you.

Thank you.