The scrapbook itself ends abruptly. Nothing after 1950. I imagine that my mother and my father were just too busy taking care of Mike. I ended this section with a snapshot from that era, of my big brother Mike by himself. This is the essence of autism: alone-ness. It is so hard to understand.
[Note: I scheduled the initial ‘My Brother Michael’ posts more than a month ago, in preparation for our move to Los Angeles. The move is complete but the aftermath of boxes everywhere and the newness of everything has left me a bit unsettled. Fortunately, I photographed a number of pages of my book before the move, so I can bank on those while I’m getting settled. So, apologies if the continuity of the book is off at this point.