When my daughter Gina was a toddler, she'd ask me every night what color love is. Her question soon grew into a game, and we recited the same rhyme every night: "Sunday's love is pink, Sunday's love is pure; the petal pink, the purest pink, a puppy's warm, wet tongue."

We'd jingle our way through every day of the week, and I'd tuck Gina in, marveling at the budding creativity of my child's mind. Her love was so easily given. I never dreamed the next years would bring me two little boys whose autism made their displays of love as elusive as the Holy Grail.

Sadly, Gina outgrew the story last year. ``I'm in kindergarten now, Mommy. That's a baby story.'' I'd nearly forgotten about Gina's story until one unseasonably warm Sunday morning last February.

My son Jamie, at age 4 needed order and structure to keep himself collected. His autism made change difficult for him, and I took extreme care to leave his room in perfect order, placing things exactly where they were yesterday.

That day, Jamie perceived something was wrong. He frantically pointed to his box of crayons. A visual search revealed that the yellow crayon - his favorite - was missing. I saw the subtle signs that my son was losing his tenuous grip on his self-control. I had to find that crayon and fast.

Desperate, I searched every inch of my son's room. For the life of me, I couldn't find the yellow crayon. I watched Jamie helplessly as one tear turned into two. Slight sniffles escalated by degrees into pitiful, shrieking wails of terror. I'd lost control of his environment, and Jamie had lost his grip on sanity.

For hours I tried to redirect Jamie's interest into something else. I could feel the fingers of hysteria creeping into my mind. I felt like burying myself in the enormous pile of videotapes, toys, and favorite foods I'd offered to divert Jamie's attention. As I attempted to soothe Jamie, Gina sat in the doorway, wide-eyed with loneliness. Her mouth drew itself into a straight line, its corners turning gradually downward. I knew she wanted to cry. I wanted to cry, too. I left Jamie for a moment, tossed Gina a sweater and opened the French doors to allow her to escape into the yard for a while. She's 6 years old now, I thought. Surely she can play in a fenced yard alone for a bit.

Jamie continued, alternately throwing himself to the floor and banging his head, then reaching his arms out to me as if to say ``help me.'' But he wouldn't let me pick him up. He wouldn't allow me to comfort him. I couldn't help but wonder if he had any idea how much I needed to know that he knew how much I loved him. I felt so helpless. I've said ``I love you'' a thousand times over, I've never had one clue to show me he understood. I closed the blinds and tucked Jamie in his bed. As I left his room, my heart pounded painfully in my chest. I felt torn between staying or leaving him alone with his tantrum, as his therapists say I should. I stalled, making a slow exit toward the door, hoping for any sign he was willing to communicate.

No luck. I slid the door closed and went into the bathroom to wash my face. Then I sat down on the bathroom floor and cried into the cradle of my arms. I can't say whether I sat there for moments or hours. All I know is when I raised my head Jamie was silent. That seemed more terrifying than his screams. At least his screams told me he was alive, that he hadn't bumped his head so hard on the wall that he now lay comatose or even worse, dead.

Jamie was gone.

I searched every nook and cranny of the house, shrieking his name. I pounded on the door to the therapy room where my 5-year-old, David, worked with his therapist.

"Have you seen Jamie?"
She shook her head no.

"Dear God, he's gone!''
The fear of losing my sons has been the stuff of my nightmares for years now. I ran to the front of the house to check the intricate series of locks we keep on our doors and windows to prevent this kind of terror. My sons can't even tell anyone their names without heavy prompting, much less navigate their way back home. The locks were intact. Where could Jamie be?

Gina's delighted shrieks wafted in through the French doors. Her laughter was followed by Jamie's giggles. I'd forgotten that I'd sent Gina outside to escape from bedlam. What kind of mother am I, I wondered?

As I erupted through the French doors, I noticed Jamie squatting in the grass by the fence, bent over something of great interest. Immediately, I began running to my children, afraid they'd located a fire ant hill. As I called Jamie's name, he and Gina turned to look at me. Jamie stood and a wide grin spread across his tear-stained cheeks. His tiny fists weren't covered with the ant bites I'd expected. Instead, they were crammed full of dandelions. Jamie ran towards me, laughing. As we met in the middle of the yard, he held up great wads of yellow flowers and said, ``here,'' as he shoved them into my hands. I accepted my Jamie's peace offering. Eagerly, he climbed into my lap. His little shoulders shuddered a little in the way that only children's do
after a long, hearty cry. He buried his face in my chest and sighed.

Many years ago, Gina asked me what color love is. I was never exactly sure what the answer was, in spite of the story we shared every night before she went to bed. Today, a boy with no words to tell his story gave me his answer. Love is
the brightest yellow, the brilliant yellow, a field of springtime dandelions. It is the warmest yellow, the wonderful yellow, soft as my children's hair. It is vibrant, a golden sun that looks down on us every day, watching us grow in unexpected ways.

Traci Yates-Poff writing as Liane Gentry Skye
starmuser@aol.com