What I want you to see

We're in California now, having completed our check in with our UCLA research study doc yesterday.  The sun is shining and we have a tiny pleasant apartment where the back gate opens to what Griffin described as a scene akin to the one in the Wizard of Oz  where everything blossoms into a world of color. Just beyond lies the romping doggy beach we love.

                                    

I could, and I swear I will, let it all go and be here in the moment.  But for now I'm stuck on the experience of being with Ces in the world.  We had to traverse JFK airport and accomodate a very tight fit on the airplane with Walden at our feet for six hours.  No one even knew Walden was there until he briefly occupied my seat when I crawled over the kind woman next to us to use the bathroom.  It was the moment I returned to my seat, and the many like it in the airport that are stuck in my head.  It's the assessment Ces attracts from others.  Sure, Walden is a dead giveaway. Service dog? What's wrong with that kid?  But even without Walden, Cesare gets the same stares or more politely, glances. They see Cesare with his mouth often open, and one slightly droopy eye but miss his beautiful face.  He slumps forward, the weight of four anti epileptic drugs heavy on his shoulders.  What else do others see when they look at him? What is it that makes them stare? What do they conclude? There is judgment in their eyes. Cesare doesn't see others size him up.  I can't not see it.  When I watch others watch him, I hear a door slam shut.  They've dismissed him.  I can't make others see Ces the way I see him.  And I shouldn't care.  But I do.  And so I watch the watchers and hope their eyes meet mine.  When they do I shoot them fire and I don't let go until they have to turn away from the heat.