A mother’s worth is visible in her child’s success. Fixed solidly on the hard cushion of the earthen ceiling.

A person’s worth is appreciated by her accomplishments. Glaring stilly above the cumulus crowd.

A woman’s worth is accepted in her friendships. Watching hungrily while the distant birds swarm and leave.

In a glance; the fragile newborn, the grasping toddler, the happy kid, the lonesome child, the wise little one, the sarcastic teen, the comedian, the artist, the one who ask for little, takes without knowing and gives everything. Joy, beauty, intelligence. Some of myself, some of him and some magic all her own.

Does an autistic spirit shine through a person’s eyes differently? Is it possible to witness her seeing the world differently by the spark that ignites when she looks inward?

What part of her indelible self will remain visible when she looses the smooth roundness of her cheeks?

I had a splatter of red liquid oozing down my face, dripping down my shirt and slowly seeping into my torn jeans. And there was the bullet hole in my forehead. It wasn’t what it looked like.

Unless it looked like I had defied my parents orders, again, and attended MakeupCon instead of spending the day with my prissy cousins getting ready for the stuffed-shirts party my parents were hosting. In which case it was exactly what it looked like.

I wasn’t sure my parents guests would understand. I was certain my parents would not. In fact, I was quite certain that my parents were thinking that if I didn’t already have a giant fake hole in my head, they’d put a real one there instead. They hated me. They’d never get it.

I knew I had to get out of there.