He won’t sit with them, stand with them, sing with them.
They line up at the door. He does a headstand.
His brain is like a butterfly, his thoughts tangle round his ankles.
And all the emotion of being asked to fit in, comes out explosively. He’s the toothpaste when you squeeze the tube too much.
The ceremonies and conventions have no meaning for him, and I try not to be frustrated or sad.
I’m proud of my tiny non-conformist, but I don't want to let go of his hand, when he chooses the less-travelled way.