Yesterday, I was in a booth at the pizza shop
with Josh, one of the autistic students I do in-home care with.
Eating a slice of cheese and a side salad,
I felt tiny eyes behind me,
a shallow breath on my shoulder.
I turned around to see a little boy
ducking his head below the seat,
his curls flouncing as he hides--
he knew he has been found out.
"Were you eyeing up my pizza?"
I asked him, playfully.
"Yes!" he exclaimed, "It looks so yummy!
I'm getting pizza too, whoever
wins the Super Bowl will be the best team
in the world."
Before I could reply, his mother rushed toward their booth
from the counter,
huffing out apologies. "I'm so sorry," she said.
What a spirited little guy, I thought.
Why did she seem so embarrassed?
As I prompted Josh to get his trash together,
the little boy's mother whispered to get my attention.
"Autism?" she mouthed, gesturing toward Josh.
I nodded.
"Him too," she said, pointing to the talkative little boy.
"He couldn't even tell me his name until recently."
As Josh and I left that night,
I began to wonder what the barricade is
between the brain and the mouth,
and how therapists break it down,
like in the little boy's case.
"Did you have a good dinner, Josh?"
I asked, as he gazed out the window from the backseat
of my car.
He offered me not even a glance.
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