The biggest event for our family lately had nothing to do with autism.
A very dear friend passed away after a two-year battle with stomach cancer. This is my first time (at age 39) experiencing the death of someone in my peer group. As this friend left behind a lovely and loving wife, as well as a 4- and 5-year-old, it is something that touches our whole family.

The kids, of course, have had a lot of questions. "Where did S. go?" "Did he live a long life?" "Is his cancer gone now?" "Are his kids sad?" We took them to the funeral, hoping to show them how our faith community demonstrates love and support in times of sorrow, as well as celebration. Zoe even asked to attend the burial and, after hesitating momentarily, I took her. She was curious, not missing a detail, asking her usual myriad of questions. After the family had tossed flowers into the grave and we walked somberly away, she said, "When do we see the body?" "You're not going to," I answered, "Are you disappointed?" "Yes," she said, "I wanted to see it." I explained to her that our friend had gotten very sick in the last couple of months and that I thought it would be better if she remembered him when he was well. I had said good-bye to him on the night he died and was struggling to remember him healthy and strong.

Liam has been perseverating on this tragedy and I've been afraid he'll say something inappropriate to our friend's wife and children. So far, nothing beyond him fingering the large, smooth wedding band on a chain around V.'s neck and asking, "Whose is this?" although he already knows. In defiance of his own disability, Liam has been more focused than Zoe on the emotions of those left behind--what they feel and for how long they may feel it. "When will they stop being sad?" he asked me. In all honesty, I had to answer, "Never."