Visiting Grandma and Grandpa was a rare thing growing up. We lived in Iceland, so the trans-Atlantic flight from there to Virginia was an event, the highlight of the year.
After one of those annual trips, my folks called my grandparents and put me on the line. I’m no good on the phone now, and I wasn’t much better then.
I forget who asked or how it came up, but I recall saying something clunky:
“Well, I don’t miss you, but I do remember you.”
My parents laughed it off or something, as I remember them smoothing it over — they all knew I was an odd, hyperfactual duck.
I didn’t think much of it at the time, but it typifies all too well one of those fissures in The Life Autistic:
We don’t always feel the emotions that should be there.
It’s not that we don’t “get it” — we do, but we don’t, y’know, “get it.” Not like everyone else.
I’m not always sad when bad things happen to others. I relate, I’ve practiced the words, and I know I should feel more sorrow.
I rejoice with those who rejoice, but it’s not always as deep-seated in me to be indwelled with the same for people and situations.
I’m not some cold, robotic soul who has eroded all traces of human pathos from his system—no, I and many others know we don’t always possess the emotion where it should be.
We see the gaps, and we adapt.
In time and in some cases, we do begin to feel. It’s growth, understanding, learning what is meant to fill the space. Nothing remains empty forever.
I do think back to those trips.
The long drives through the trees, how foreign they were compared to tundra.
The way the smoke clung to the wood and brick of their old house.
The ironclad hugs from Grandpa.
The two best weeks of the year.
I remember them less and miss them more.
The Life Autistic 