She has her favorite purple Velcro watch around her wrist. Not that she can tell the time, but so she can feel the resistance of the hooks when she pulls the bands apart, can scratch herself with its rough black edges.
She’s wearing her comfortable T-shirt and skirt, the one that I’ve already replaced twice with an identical one, since it has no labels, and is sewn without extra fabric at the seam. From the way she flits back and forth, looking at the reflection in the windows, occasionally squealing in delight, I can see she is relaxed.
I’d never expected her to look this way as an adult. Honestly, I’d never really thought about special needs adults until she turned 18 last year. She was always little to me, and with her development so delayed, I just viewed her as a child.
Which in essence she still is.
Except that she isn’t.
I watch as the performers enter, with music, and move toward the center of the group. Everyone can see as they do tricks, acrobatics, bicycle stunts. Chaviva’s oblivious to the show, barely aware of the social significance of their fame, and I wonder why I thought to bring her.
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