Zooming home. Highway 100. The car in front of us. Shiny black Lexus. The passenger in the back seat. Moving. Rapidly. Rocking. Rocking. Rocking back and forth. Back and forth. I searched for cues. Did I know this family? Nothing present identified them to me except the passenger in the back seat.
While I did not know the child of about age eight, whom I glimpsed as I passed them to turn off toward town, I did know something with fair certainty. That something: this was a family living with autism. I know. I know because I know that rock. I know the seat belt going in and out. In and out as the backseat passenger rocked back and forth. Back and forth. (Grace destroyed a seat belt in my car when it was new five years ago. A seat belt for beJeebees $akes!) Back and forth. Back and forth.
I grinned to myself. And called The Fiance. I had seen ourselves, I told him. How many times had people come up behind us, when Grace used to ride in the back seat, or come up alongside of us as she sits now in the front with me. Back and forth. Back and forth. How many of them know, as I do, this is autism? It does help to have bumper stickers plastered everywhere. Not that I'm trying to explain ourselves in that way. We just rock. Back and forth. Back and forth. Rock. Rock. Rock. And at least for today, we had company. Back and forth. Back and forth.