There is a weepy screech singing from the raspy throat of my 19 month old these days. He is just short of talking, stuck in the middle of gibberish and coherent language, caught between saying something and nothing at all.
I think I understand that stuck place. I want to say something profound in my master’s thesis. I want to begin one sentence in the countless books I’ve written in my mind. But when I sit down at the computer sometimes I can’t say anything at all. My fingers slide across the letters on the keyboard, the soft scrape against the keys reminds of Rafael’s weepy screech—his tongue, my fingers, both trying to find the right words to say.