He
waits
by
the checkout,
collecting
baskets,
as
usual.
My
nod brings a question:
“D'you know what
autistic
means?”
We
wait as if time
will
conjure an answer.
“You
can’t see it,
they
say.”
“That’s
right,” I smile,
placing
a divider
after
my groceries.
He
shuffles off,
wheeling
his stack.
Not
much to go on,
really.
Some
days,
that’s
all there is.
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