Lady in the Bookshop

In the bookshop I notice a woman and her son,
I don't know why but My eyes are drawn to them.
Then I see the little boy move in that dancing way
As if moved by some distracted puppeteer.
The boy repeats words, bouncing them like a ball.
Only those who live with autism can sense its presence
In the movement of a finger.

The boy grows agitated skips and dances
As his controls begin to fail
His mother, embarrassed tries to hold him back
Gradually both become locked in a familiar struggle,
She reddens as people start to stare.

I want to go to her and say
"I have an autistic daughter
I know how hard you try.
Be proud of what He can do
Not ashamed for what he can't.
Proud for your self, for what you achieve."
But I don't
Afraid lest she has locked away the word autism;
Wrapped it in a heavy cloth and placed it somewhere dark,
So it can't touch her son.

So I say nothing.
When they leave I am ashamed