Dreams of Sugarplum Fairies…

I headed out this morning with my son, en route to his favorite program, a working bakery in Brooklyn. I’d managed to get him to take sunglasses on what promised to be a blisteringly hot, sunny day. Mission one accomplished. Mission two: getting him out the door in spite of his perseverating about a tshirt he’d left behind this weekend, and of course desperately wanted. Not even to wear. Just to have in his hands here. Now. Mission two: accomplished. Sort of.

En route to the subway, we waited for the light to change alongside a little girl of about five or six, who was holding the hand of her mother/older sister/babysitter. I’m guessing the latter, but have no way of knowing for sure. And here was my son, audibly chatting away to himself and to the air around him. About what, who knows? Probably the missing t-shirt. The little girl turned her head and gave him a familiar, frightened look, one I’ve seen on other kids. And even on adults.

The light changed, my son started to cross, and he kept talking. His vocalizations are weird. There’s no getting around that. And with his giraffe legs, he was already ahead of me down the block. Instead, I found myself alongside the little girl. I turned toward her and said, “He won’t bother you. He’s autistic. And sometimes, he just likes to talk to himself out loud.” She held my gaze, and assuming her perfect, tight bun was that of a ballet student, I asked, “Do you ever imagine practicing ballet dances in your head?” She nodded. “That’s kind of what he’s doing when he’s talking out loud.” And I continued on my way, catching up with my son halfway down the next block. But not before I heard the young woman say to the little girl, “Remember Shay?” And I could just imagine the rest of that conversation. In my head of course. About someone they once knew who also talked to himself out loud. And whom they might now imagine differently. Perhaps more kindly. Or so I hoped…