of him?”
“You can see his breath,” I tell him.
Ezra stops pacing and places his hands on the fence between himself and the creature. He takes a few deep breaths, and then I realize what he is doing: Watching the vapor emerging from the leopard, he is adjusting his own breath to be in sync with the cat’s. I take a few steps back and watch my son—who has gone through life seemingly so alone, who would never think of pacing the playground with another child—breathing in near silence with a leopard. I savor the moment, satisfied that I have brought Ezra to a place where he can be, at least for two minutes, content and calm, at peace.
And then he darts away, on to the next animal and the next and the next, until it is time to head to the parking lot. He senses the change, and even before we exit the gate, he starts in again on the usual chatter about Disney movies and junk food. As we walk hand in hand out toward the car, I wonder if the joy Ezra feels among his animals will ever permeate the rest of his life—and hope my little boy might someday feel as content and comfortable among his own species.
CHAPTER SIX
The Reader
We’re at Brad and Elana’s house when Ezra is five years old. The four adults are chatting over what’s left of lunch. Meanwhile, most of the kids have scattered around the house, occupying themselves with a bucket of Legos and the chocolate-chip ice cream that has appeared on the kitchen counter. Ezra sits on the floor nearby doing what he spends much of his time lately doing: obsessively paging through a picture book, front to back, then back to front. It’s not idle page turning. He holds the book close to his face, examining the letters and images the way some kids stare at their Game Boys. This afternoon it’s his current book of choice: a simple, colorful storybook about Thomas the Tank Engine.
Elana glances toward him.
“Is he reading yet?” she asks.
I am not sure I’ve heard correctly.
“Reading?” I ask. She might as well have asked if he’s composing symphonies. But she’s serious. Ezra, thanks to Sesame Street , can recognize the letters, but he shows no sign of stringing them together into words. In school he is so challenged by the simple act of paying attention that it’s hard to imagine him achieving much more. Brad and Elana have an older son with a diagnosis similar to Ezra’s. Often, Elana has valuable advice and insights. But this time I can’t fathom what she’s thinking.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll bet he’s reading.”
Elana is smiling cryptically as she says it, and I wonder if she’s speaking in some sort of coded, ironic language, as if she’s putting quotation marks around the word reading . Is this her way of saying that maybe Ezra thinks he’s reading, but of course we all know better than that? Surely Elana can’t be implying that Ezra could be comprehending the words on the page.
He does spend countless hours—the majority of some days—scrutinizing the pages of books: Dr. Seuss, The Story of Babar, Madeline . He seems magnetically attracted to their pages, mesmerized by their images and practically hypnotized by the process of opening, staring, and flipping page after page after page. It may be a form of imitation. He’s growing up in a home lined with bookshelves, with a rabbi for a mom and a writer for a dad. The way other kids might put on an apron and pretend to cook or sit behind the wheel and play bus driver, Ezra flips through books, just like his parents. Yet with all of that, it has never occurred to me that at the age of five my son is actually reading those words.
“He does love books,” I say. “But I don’t think he’s . . . reading .”
“Here,” Elana says. “Let me see.” She rises from the table, taking a place next to Ezra on the floor. She sits cross-legged beside him, examining the book he’s holding.
“Let’s read this,” she says, and she squeezes next to him, pointing at one word at a
“You can see his breath,” I tell him.
Ezra stops pacing and places his hands on the fence between himself and the creature. He takes a few deep breaths, and then I realize what he is doing: Watching the vapor emerging from the leopard, he is adjusting his own breath to be in sync with the cat’s. I take a few steps back and watch my son—who has gone through life seemingly so alone, who would never think of pacing the playground with another child—breathing in near silence with a leopard. I savor the moment, satisfied that I have brought Ezra to a place where he can be, at least for two minutes, content and calm, at peace.
And then he darts away, on to the next animal and the next and the next, until it is time to head to the parking lot. He senses the change, and even before we exit the gate, he starts in again on the usual chatter about Disney movies and junk food. As we walk hand in hand out toward the car, I wonder if the joy Ezra feels among his animals will ever permeate the rest of his life—and hope my little boy might someday feel as content and comfortable among his own species.
CHAPTER SIX
The Reader
We’re at Brad and Elana’s house when Ezra is five years old. The four adults are chatting over what’s left of lunch. Meanwhile, most of the kids have scattered around the house, occupying themselves with a bucket of Legos and the chocolate-chip ice cream that has appeared on the kitchen counter. Ezra sits on the floor nearby doing what he spends much of his time lately doing: obsessively paging through a picture book, front to back, then back to front. It’s not idle page turning. He holds the book close to his face, examining the letters and images the way some kids stare at their Game Boys. This afternoon it’s his current book of choice: a simple, colorful storybook about Thomas the Tank Engine.
Elana glances toward him.
“Is he reading yet?” she asks.
I am not sure I’ve heard correctly.
“Reading?” I ask. She might as well have asked if he’s composing symphonies. But she’s serious. Ezra, thanks to Sesame Street , can recognize the letters, but he shows no sign of stringing them together into words. In school he is so challenged by the simple act of paying attention that it’s hard to imagine him achieving much more. Brad and Elana have an older son with a diagnosis similar to Ezra’s. Often, Elana has valuable advice and insights. But this time I can’t fathom what she’s thinking.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll bet he’s reading.”
Elana is smiling cryptically as she says it, and I wonder if she’s speaking in some sort of coded, ironic language, as if she’s putting quotation marks around the word reading . Is this her way of saying that maybe Ezra thinks he’s reading, but of course we all know better than that? Surely Elana can’t be implying that Ezra could be comprehending the words on the page.
He does spend countless hours—the majority of some days—scrutinizing the pages of books: Dr. Seuss, The Story of Babar, Madeline . He seems magnetically attracted to their pages, mesmerized by their images and practically hypnotized by the process of opening, staring, and flipping page after page after page. It may be a form of imitation. He’s growing up in a home lined with bookshelves, with a rabbi for a mom and a writer for a dad. The way other kids might put on an apron and pretend to cook or sit behind the wheel and play bus driver, Ezra flips through books, just like his parents. Yet with all of that, it has never occurred to me that at the age of five my son is actually reading those words.
“He does love books,” I say. “But I don’t think he’s . . . reading .”
“Here,” Elana says. “Let me see.” She rises from the table, taking a place next to Ezra on the floor. She sits cross-legged beside him, examining the book he’s holding.
“Let’s read this,” she says, and she squeezes next to him, pointing at one word at a
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