Her eyes sparkle as she flails her hands about. These words are some of the first that she’s ever strung together in semi-logical order.
“Dog… Eye… Tickle… The dog tickle mine EYE… And I FALL…”
She’s two. And her gibberish has hooked my attention.
She’s got me. I can feel the wonder pouring out of her. She’s tapping into magic here, and she knows it.
She’s bridging the abyss between us through an ephemeral superpower called communication.
She’s telling. A story.
And I get her food.
“Do you want more, Rory?”
And I stop giving her food.
Before now, it’s been a guessing game. She’s had to hope like hell the world knew what she was thinking and feeling.
Most often, she found, it didn’t. She was alone on an island. Wailing, screaming, and kicking away while no one listened.
How isolating must that feel?
Now, though, she’s seeing that through her uttering a few choice sounds, the world responds to her whim. Not by having to kick and scream until we guess right. But by simply… saying it.
Her desires are now more in reach than ever. Like having access to her very own genie in a bottle… She says something. And she gets it (or not).
How awesome is that?
Maybe that’s why we write. We’re tapping into that same magic. We’re bridging that same abyss we first cross when we’re two.