AUTISM: SEEKING INKLINGS IN AN OLD VIDEO

by Edward Byrne

He held mussel shells — indigo blue inside and black
on back — or those round pebbles he had

found rolling like dark marbles in the tidewater

sheet of tinfoil unfurled under that day’s final
splay of sunlight. Every one of our son’s

uneasy steps at the ocean’s edge left an impression,
still refilling with water — even as I witness

it now, in midwinter three years later. We could
not have known then to watch for the few

symptoms we would soon learn to view with fear.
Even those little hints we missed, a lack

of balance whenever he would lean to lift another
stick of driftwood, as if the shoreline’s

slant had suddenly become too steep, or the tipped
head and sideways glance he’d give us,

though we thought he only wanted reassurance,|
were never seen as dubious sorts of acts

that ought to indicate a reason to have misgivings.
But to the two of us, now so suspicious,

feeling guilt, every unsure move that camera caught
appears to be uninvestigated evidence left

behind, even in this scene when the tape runs to its end.
He sits on the sand, back toward the shore,

counting out his collection of shells in a single file,
as if pretending every one of them were part

of some private treasure, the way anyone might
arrange family keepsakes, jewels or gems

kept as heirlooms somewhere in a darkened drawer,
brought out for comfort in a time of grief.