I sit at the computer in the morning and just before dinner, and my fingers tap keys, and the letters form before my eyes. Sometimes I remember when I first learned to type, and I watched a movie in the theatre and could not stop typing what they spoke.
I felt so annoyed that QWERTY wouldn’t leave me be, but then I felt glad I could type like the wind when I filled days with writing newspaper articles and essays.
I sit at this desk and feel the press of words. Names on slips of paper. Calendar filled with jotted lines. Information on an ink cartridge box. I read emails and texts and blog posts, and there are so many words.
A few days ago, my dear stepsister (with a new blessed boy of her own) moved her fingers across the buttons of a phone, and within moments, we read holy words announcing the third niece or nephew born into our family in five weeks.
Along with the picture she sent of my other precious stepsister in hospital gown, holding new baby girl life, the words: “She is here!”
We yelled celebration words, and then waited for another message that would tell us her name. The word representing who she is and will be.
Lala talks sing-song in the jogger stroller, spring blossoms fanning overhead against a vibrant blue.
“S-I-T-T-L-Y…what’s that spell, Mama?”
“Sittly,” I say.
She pauses, considering what kind of word this might be.
“C-L-E-N-E…what’s that spell?”
I hear her speak letters she knows in all kinds of order, and some of these strings are so close to forming words we know. One letter here, another there, and we’ve got ourselves a word.
I remember those first strings of sound morphing their way bit by bit into words. “Mama.” “Papa.” “Dog.” “Ball.” “Baby.” They are miracle music, and even now, I want to grab hold as they float on vibrant blue air like jet trails.
This weekend, I listen to my sister speak words to her new baby boy: “It’s OK, honey. Mama’s here.”
And I watch words flow from the mouth of my 5-year-old niece and my 2-year-old nephew as they hold baby brother, stroke his hair, cradle him in small arms.
“You love sister, don’t you?”
“What a nice baby.”
“I love you.”
This morning, I stand at my counter, open my old travel Bible and touch worn pages. Life jewels made by letters side by side, forming rock under hand.
These are life, and we are life, making our own music with the words from our mouths.