The Hot Spoon
Mommy makes hot tea
in a brown teapot,
then pours it in his cup.
He heats a spoon
in the hot tea
and looks my way.
I watch.
I breathe fast.
I want to run
and hide from him,
but don’t dare move.
I know what’s coming.
He does this often.
I can hear my heart
beating hard
as I choke on
a swallow of nothing.
I watch
as the spoon lifts
from the cup
and comes toward me,
hot,
very, very hot.
Quickly he presses
the hot spoon
on my little arm.
I want to run
and hide from him,
but don’t dare move
so I hide
inside myself.
Written by Linda Hanson -01-2008
I thought of my father as whisker man because he almost always had a stubble of whiskers, not enough to be soft but just enough to scratch my face raw when he gave whisker rubs to try to get a reaction. I believed all my childhood that he was not really my father. My sisters all had brown hair and blue eyes and I had blonde hair and green eyes. Regardless of whether or not he fathered me, he was the man in charge and determined to get a reaction from me, whether by a whisker rub, a hot spoon, or by picking me up by my hair.
I am sharing these poems and true stories because I want others to know that just because a child with autism does not respond, it does not indicate an empty shell with nothing inside. I could think. I could feel. I could be hurt badly enough to still cause nightmares in my senior years. It may even be possible that because of the sensitivities that come with autism and the inability to intuitively figure out human interactions, the damage may be even greater. Maybe also because many with autism are gifted with an incredible memory, the pain is not easily forgotten.
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