Encounter
September 5, 2015 “Hi, cutie!” the woman with a prosthetic arm said with a smile. For some reason, as if people could not tell, I often feel compelled to clarify my son is not your typical boy. “He can’t talk.” “That’s OK,” was her reply. “How old is he?” “He is five, but he is extremely delayed.” “That’s OK,” she said again. She proceeded to tell me about her nephews and nieces as if my son were one of them, that is, just another child. Indeed, he is. But on days when my mood is down, and the sky is grey, when I long for what I don’t have nor ever will sadness takes over and clouds my view. Yet that woman brought a bit of sunshine to my morning. My explanations were unnecessary. She didn’t care. She appreciated my son for who he was. Perhaps her own share of trouble and heartache made her the person she is. Neither pity nor curiosity, just an acknowledgement of the presence of another human being.