No room at the inn

I watched my client and friend stand at the wooden door.
He gazed intently through the half moon glass.
It was Christmas and the moon was full this year.
He hadn’t seen his mother for 2 months but
She promised she would come.
She promised she would be there for her boy.
He left the window door and paced about
Not in nervous anticipation, but the way he always paces
The steady gaze out that window became an added part;
An added step to his autistic routine.
I so wished he could communicate.
I wanted to hear the words that echoed in his heart and head.
I wanted to reassure him that his Christmas joy would come,
But my internal mumblings would not be heard.
I tried to sign but he was too busy;
Too busy churning hope like milk into fear butter.
A butter he would have to spread alone this Christmas
Seasoned with the salt of his tears.