Nonverbal

It was "Mama Time" with our boys. Morgan, happily drinking his 2nd bottle of milk, his round belly peeking underneath his shirt and Garret equally happy connecting and pulling apart his pegs over and over.  After a while, Morgan climbs down from the bed and approaches his kuya. Or more specifically, his kuya's pegs. He mischievously fiddles with it disarranges the order the way  kuya intentionally kept them. As expected, Garret hurries to arrange it, just the way he likes it. Morgan then grins, his eyes turning "chinesey" and all of his teeth showing. He is the typical naughty sibling who messes around with his brother's toys. This is how they play together. Garret organizes things, Morgan messes them up. At times, they fight over the same toy even if there is two of every kind. Sometimes they push each other. And when one cries, the other one pinches the other one's mouth. They play like any other regular, "normal" kids, except that no words are spoken. They communicate with gestures, body language, eye contact and perhaps a grunt here and there. And yet , they enjoy each others company. Quiet enjoyment. quiet joy, I thought. Suddenly,  as I was looking at them, a question lurched in my heart, " Will my Garret ever speak?" I had no answers. It was then and there I realized how in the deepest part of my soul,  I desperately wanted him to talk. Even if it meant him squabbling with his brother Morgan every single day of his life.   Speaking. Talking. Arguing. How else do we survive? When we want something, we ask for it. When we don't like someone or something, we speak up. When we are hurt, we cry out until help reaches us. This is why my prayer every night is that I may have long life so that for as long as Garret needs something, I am there to give him what he wants, to take away his pain, to nurse him when he is hurt. I need to be his voice. I am his voice. But reality is,  even I get exhausted.

            In reflection, maybe it is not the words specifically that I wanted for my child, but a sense of connection, or any form of communication that he can convey to his brother, to us and most especially to the world that will most of the times not understand him and sometimes may be cruel to him. At this point, I honestly don't know what I want for Garret. Maybe because it is not my place to demand from the heavens a miracle. Maybe because I am scared that if I hope too much, I will only be disappointed. Or maybe, like all mothers, I simply fear for my child. I fear that when the time comes when I won't be there for him, he might get hurt, and he can't cry out, and no help will reach him.