You set a cup of tea in front of me, like a solution, the sound of soft snoring coming through the baby monitor. I drink it because it gives my hands something to do, not because it will feed me.
I’ve come to the end of a long novel, the trance broken. Goodnight, little prince: the first words I’ve said in hours. The first since is there a cure? The answer rattling in my body: no. Darkness flling a porcelain cup. We left the city, trees (as we gained momentum) huddling closer and closer together. No one got off at our stop.
I forgot to check the mail, I say suddenly, slipping barefoot out the front door. Cold envelopes fill the crook of my elbow, the neighbors’ homes dark, unmoving.
I cut up the mail, like a solution, the sound of soft snoring coming from the couch. AUTISM idling in the search bar. I close your laptop because it gives my hands something to do, not because I believe we have an answer.
Heather Cadenhead is the author of Inventory of Sleeping Things (Maverick Duck Press) and the mother of two boys, one of whom is on the autism spectrum. You can connect with her on Instagram @themaptomilo.