We wrote with black marker on the skin of your chest.

Letters of your name:

first, last.

Underneath, our home phone number.

 

Your first trip alone without parent or aide,

A beautiful, distracted, autistic first-grader.

After you left,

We unsuccessfully throttled our panic.

 

Time has wheeled by, between that day and this.

Years filled with laughter — frustrations, too.

Days of  learning about hearts and brains:

yours, ours.

 

Today, you paused on the high school’s steps.

Stopped to wave, gave a little smile, and then you were gone.

I saw the shadow of your six year-old smile and your six-foot-frame.

My moment of unbridled happiness.