Olie

He was short, and thin.
His jacket was zipped up to the very top, collar up, so he could just rest the tops of his lips and the bottom of his ear inside, if he wanted to.
He was outside ready.

He fidgeted.
His hands made signs of something.
He squeaked and gargled and hummed.

He can't communicate, she said.
He's autistic, she said.
Don't touch him, he doesn't like that., she said.

He let out a yelpy snarl.
I didn't like labels either.

A plane flew overhead loudly.
We were both distracted.
The boy threw his hands up in the air.
I put my hands up in the air with him.
He paused, only briefly, to stare at me.

He'll take off running, she said.
Why wouldn't he?, I said.
He is a little boy.

He'll run off., she said.
We can watch him., I said.
The boy knew.  
I know he knew.

With a loud squeal, he was off
Lickeity-split.
Running fast.
Back and forth,
Up and down, circles upon circles, 
and free.

Yes, he squawked and yelled....
A boy in a yard.
I followed suit.

Finally, exhausted, we sat
In the yard, drinking juice.

In truth, only I was exhausted.
The boy had more energy than me.

He sat down on top of my lap, hard.
He grabbed my face,
He patted my face and hummed.

He doesn't normally do that., she said.

We will never see each other again.
It was only a tiny chance meeting.

Who knows if we really communicated.
For sure, we didn't talk.
I know that I traded some juice for a sweet pat on the face from a little boy named Olie.
The Olie that ran free in my yard.