He turns to her. The story’s well rehearsed:
mistakes at work, wing mirrors clipped, wrong change,
“His mum went like this, too.” I probe the wound.
“What was the first thing — really worried you?”
Her face falls. “It was Christmas time last year;
our youngest brought him her new Lego set.
He couldn’t help, just sat there with the box
and shuffled all the pieces in his hands.”
There’s blood for genes, a cholinergic feint,
much talk. The clinic fades to dozy Tube.
I’m home to fumble round a bedtime — late
again — and Miles (pyjamaed in the hall
amid a flood of plastic gems) holds up
two broken bricks he can’t unpick. We build.
Footnotes
This article has been peer reviewed.