Relief of the Autistic Child

She met him at the door and closed the screen. “Marie is sleeping in the den,” she said. “She spoke to me today, and smiled a bit.” He set his package on the patio floor And sat beside her in the cushioned swing. “So many years we’ve struggled with that child; You grasp at straws, a grunt, a grimace, all The same. Never really any change.” “The doctor came. She hasn’t been herself, You know. She let him close enough to touch her.” “That’s a change.” “She even left her chair For him. He thinks it just some sort of phase; Wait awhile, and she’ll be right as rain.” “How would he know? We’d never know ourselves The way she sits wrapped up from toe to chin In blankets she won’t let you wash. She rocks And sleeps and eats and nothing more.” “But now she doesn’t eat. She always eats.” “And seems to know exactly what she likes.” “She likes your mother’s cookies—chocolate chip And eats them by the plate if we permit.” “How does she know which chip is which? She throws the store-bought ones across the room.” “Her taste, no doubt, is just as good as ours. But now, she’s barely touched a crumb for days.” “She drank her can of Sprite for me last night.” He reached into his bag. “I bought some more. I’ll check on her. She may be thirsty now.” But in his hands, she saw more than the Sprite. “You bought another doll—she doesn’t need . . .” “But this is different. Squishier, and soft. I thought, perhaps, that she might like the feel, Although, I guess, we’ll prob’bly never know.” She looked at him and smiled within herself. She never knew just whom to pity most— Marie, forever locked inside herself, Or him who sat beside her in the swing And struggled with the agony of love. He took the doll and Sprite into the house; In seconds he was back. He handed her The phone. She caught her breath, and shook her head.” “You’d better call someone,” he said. “I think she’s dead.”