Voice

Yesterday I was the woman who walked into Target looking tired and rushed, placed her child in the shopping cart seat, and–seemingly for no reason at all–began crying.

Thankfully, I was also the woman who didn’t put on makeup that morning–so I was not the woman who walked around the store with streaks of mascara running down her face.

What wasn’t clear yesterday, if you were the man watching me (but trying to look as if you weren’t watching me) and wondering what was wrong, was the tiny voice I heard that brought the tears to my eyes.

Ok, wait.

Let’s back up.

I was running late yesterday morning.

I find myself running late a whole lot of the time these days. I suppose I am finally making amends for having spent the vast majority of my life being chronically (and impatiently) fifteen minutes early for everything.

I’d slept far less than I should have. There was barely time for one cup of coffee. And I needed to stop for diapers for Ez. Because there were like three left. And that, my friends, is a recipe for disaster.

So we left early for swimming therapy. We had just enough time to pop into the Target.

We stood at the front of the store, pulling out a red shopping cart. I said, “Ok Ez, here we go,” as lifted her up to place her in the shopping cart…struggling with her legs–which are far too thin again after her recent illnesses–as they moved haphazardly every which way other than into the leg holes.

As I was doing this, I heard the tiny little voice of a child at the cash register talking to the attendant. I could not see this child, she was hidden from my view by the counter and the laws of perspective. But I could hear her. She said, proudly and clear as a bell, “I am five years old.”

And my heart shattered into a million pieces, right then and there, because I heard this child, and for just a moment, I imagined it was Esmé speaking.

She is, after all, five. And she should, by all measures of such things, be able to tell the world that she is five.

For a moment I let myself imagine what it would be like to hear my daughter speak. Not just the moments where her will somehow overcomes the force of her brain and produces the unlikely, and rarely repeated, expression, but rather the kind of fluid, weird, stream of consciousness exchanges that characterize the speech of most five-year-olds. Not just an exchange of information, but the sound of her little voice forming the words…such a simple thing.

And yet, such a complicated thing: The muscles, the coordination, the motor planning involved is nothing short of astounding when you stop and think about it.

So, I stood there in Target and let that sadness wash over me, until it passed. It is a thing I just have to do sometimes. And when it passed, Esmé and I just went about our business. Frankly, I sort of forgot about the whole thing until the next morning.

The next morning I was packed and ready to head out on a short overnight trip. I was so pleased that Esmé woke up a few minutes before I had to leave, so that I could kiss her and remind her that she would see me again soon. She was still looking pretty sleepy when her father carried her out of her room to say goodbye, but she turned in his arms and looked at me. I could tell that she was taking in the fact that I was dressed to leave–with hair and makeup done. She put her hands up in my direction and said in the littlest, sweetest voice I have ever heard, “Aye Mum mum.” Hi, Maman.

“Hi Maman,” I repeated back to her, to acknowledge her words. “Hi Maman. Hi Esmé.”

I felt those tears working their way up again…my heart shattered again. And I wondered how I could have ever imagined her words any other way. Because if those are the only words she ever speaks they will be more than enough.