Brotherless

The snow squeaks under our footfalls,

his longer and heavier than mine.

Kevin stops and looks straight up, squinting hard.

Don’t look at the sun, I tell his unhearing ears,

then tug his hand, but he won’t budge.

The syringe I hold squirts Respirdol into his juice-filled cup.

Kevin continues to concentrate on his plate,

three chicken nuggets remain when he is done

like every meal since he first ate chicken nuggets.

I point to the next addition problem on the page

and his dilated eyes focus on me,

flat and blank with all the interest

of a deer, unaware of what is

beyond itself.  

The pencil remains lifeless by his hand.

He presses the faded rewind button on the VHS

and I watch The Fox and the Hound,

the sole movie he plays,

as it again returns to the beginning

where it is supposed to be.

His autism does not afford him

The capacity or patience

To watch a movie.

Later Kevin wanders into the den

where I sit alone and moans

like a starving man that spots food

already resigned that he won’t reach it.

Bobbing his head wildly,

a hammer in the wind

he faces up and yells.

The walls shake

with what he can’t put into words.

The garage door creaks open

and Kevin jumps from his chair,

the fastest he has moved all day.

A huge smile decorates his face—

Mommy is home.