Week Four: Noise

Charlie has done an admirable job of expressing himself though his limited means. Where he once cried the same way to acknowledge physical discomfort, a loaded diaper, hunger pangs, or the brooding sense that the universe is a vast, meaningless void (despite the message thanking heaven for little boys emblazoned on his pillow), he has now developed a range.

When we remove his soiled linens, he no longer cries at the feeling of exposure, but instead grunts very subtly, a quiet complaint. With the onset of hunger, ever present, comes not a simple cry, but an operatic burst that must be giving Pavarotti pleasure to watch from his new vantage point (again assuming that the heaven pillow advertises accurately).

It's not all sadness. In playful times, he makes a noise that is close to a cluck, a very silly expression of the silliness around him, the goofy voices, the tickling fingers, the offering of a nose to be grabbed. He also yearns; upon hearing the voices of Gram and Papa through the phone last night, he did not cry as he reached for them with his hands and mouth, but called out with a content and patient hum.

When he sleeps, silence. The only noise then is my most powerful statement, in whisper form: I love you, Charlie.