A bucket of freshly picked wildflowers rest at the mud room door the hum of washing machine eases almost into a state of permanence he wet himself again he can't change himself his bed is on the first floor because fear lurks on the second demons patrol every staircase he's created his own Alcatraz to keep himself safe we do a puzzle we read the sports section of the daily local "I like this guy" "go birds" the only words i hear this day the washer is still running we look out the window i see a fall day so beautiful nature could not interact with itself so harmoniously he sees something else something tragic and discordant something evil that is always at his side this ancient child this hurt hermit whose suffering remains unsung saves me from despair every time time i bask in the purity that is his smile and when the wildflowers are gone and the washing machine stops running a new meaning will be brought to innocence lost
take this moment to be grateful for your completely intact mental facilities
For an hour and a half I sit on the floor holding a piece of shaped cardboard. I turn it round and round to show all side while holding a paper plate of paints. He holds the brush like he holds his pencils “wrong.” He pays attention to the cartoon at his lap and sporadically looks at the tip of the brush. Colors are scattered with no rhyme and reasons and brush strokes are seen without hesitation. He paints and paints and saps his little energy to make a Christmas present for his little sister.
The face and body of a million others because of the 21st chromosome. The movements and quirks of a million others because of a little spectrum. The testers and medication of a million others because of a tiny chemical. Down syndrome. Autism. Diabetes.