Library

I stand at the computer with my stack of books searching for a book on ‘transitions’ for ‘autistic children.’ There isn’t one. Why isn’t there one? Why is there no book to tell me what I am doing wrong? What I should be doing and how? [translation = help!]

I’ve left the boys with spouse. I gave up bringing them here six months ago, there’s only so much humiliation and stress I can endure in one day. Junior daughter lies on one of the sofas reading. Ten minutes drive there, 20 minutes hunting for books, ten minutes drive back; I promised. [translation = I'm trying]

Near me, a woman checks out a huge pile of books, fingers fumble a bit with bags, baggage and paperwork. Five feet from her, is a boy, maybe 12 years old, sludge green parka, mop of shaggy hair, pale complexion. He flaps his hands, jumps on the spot and talks to himself too loudly. I glance at him. I glance at her. She talks to him in a firm authoritative tone, as she concentrates on the task at hand.

I take in the aerial view of the library from the ceiling in a blur: they are two fixed points, static although one jumps, but there is a flow of traffic around them, people flowing past on route to their book quests. Each head flicks across to them both magnetized by the sound and the riffle of static, pauses, registers and then continues on their previous path, with haste. [translation = not long enough to be contaminated]


I return to the computer and the blurred screen. I want to speak to her, to tell how wonderfully she is coping, how great she is, how I admire her. [translation = ‘I think I love you.’?] But I don’t, because they’re all the wrong words. [translation = jolly good show is unlikely to translate]

I think of all the things I want to ask her, because she must know; ‘how do you get him to stay with you?’ ‘how do you stop him from running off,” ‘how do you keep his voice at that level rather than shrieking?’

I beam positive energy towards her. I beam harder and focus on the screen. If I beam hard enough, I might be able to cancel out all the stares of condemnation and embarrassment. I beam more ‘zen’ thoughts at her, but I don’t think she needs them?

Still, it can’t hurt to have an extra boost to the energy reserves. [translation = a few spare as back-up] Calm, in control, knowing. It happens all the time you know? You’re trolling around [translation = in existenc, hopefully vertical] wondering how you’re going to make it through the rest of the day, when for some unaccountable reason, you suddenly get a little lift.


That little lift is when someone beams you positive energy. You have just been zapped. Even if you don’t need it at that precise moment, your body is more intelligent than you give it credit for. It will store it away in a special reserve for emergencies. It has been scientifically proven [Ref 1] that the transfer of energy is beneficial to both parties. [Ref 2] Studies have shown, [Ref 3] longitudinally that the ratio of zapping to energy, increases in the second party exponentially, and proven to reduce anxiety as measured against a control group receiving placebo zaps to a significance where P< 0.05.[Ref 4]

She tucks her books in a bag, lays a hand on the shoulder of her son, the same height as her, maybe a fraction taller, and says ‘time to go now.’ She leaves accompanied by her scarecrow who leaps, her spine erect, her footsteps steady. Can I do that in six years time too?

[Ref 1] Somewhere.
[Ref 2] Somewhere soon.
[Ref 3] Watch this space.
[Ref 4] ditto