I am a writer.
My daughter has no words.
It is not lost on me that there is a poignant thread that runs through my life. I’m always aware that she communicates with grunts and noise and smiles and laughs but utters no syllables.
Her words are music. The rocking of her head to a song she loves. Clapping hands, kicking feet, smiling eyes and sometimes squeals.
She has no words.
Not in the way I use words. Not in the descriptions of beauty the surrounds me everyday. The pains the flow through the verbs and adjective in and out of my lips.
She is a writer too. She makes the stories of life have the depth of truth. The honesty that life is not fair, pain is very real, we are not all made the same, love does not have to be spoken to be real.
Her voice forms sounds that only a heart can know. The song her life sings is sweet and fresh and new.