Hidden Under all that Big Top

He's smart, so smart. He's magic and magnificent and absolutely maddening. Not so much the talker. Strong silent type, my son.
Tonight his therapist asked him a question about the circus, and this is how that sort of conversation usually goes:
Therapist: Did you go to the circus?
LRHF: circus.
Therapist: What did you see at the circus?
LRHF: see at the circus.
Therapist: Did you see elephants at the circus?
LRHF: Elephants at the circus.
And so you get the idea.
(Mind you he is totally phoning it in. He is so messing with us...all his words, packed a little funny, yeah, but all in there, shared rarely and received gratefully--if you can imagine how frustrating and sad it is to know this, and yet how secretly my heart jumps at this very same knowledge--a conundrum, I know, but true just the same)
Anyway, tonight, the therapist asked him a question about the circus and it went a bit differently:
Therapist: Did you go to the circus?
LRHF: Circus.
Therapist: What did you see at the circus?

(Hang on now...)
LRHF: Horses and clowns and zebras and cars and tricks and elephants...
Sweet Jesus, what a list!
So many things, so many words, so much engagement! My beautiful magnificent, if slightly mis-packed son!
He's there! He's there! He's there! Oh, I have always known he is.
And yeah, that's great, but here's the thing: yes, he's there, but he's sort of in the next room, if you will. Sometimes he comes to the doorway and peeks around the corner at me, and sometimes I tiptoe to the doorway and reach out--almost touching him, so close, so absolutely maddening! And then the distance moves between us like a returning tide.

But.
I do believe that there will be a day, any old day, when he peeks and I sneak at just the same time, and we touch with our words and our eyes and all the things we take for granted with our typical children.
He's there.
And another thing: He knows him some circus.