Glossolalia

She grabs on to a word, a whole phrase. At times even a whole sentence. But then words fail her.

She opens a present. Holds up a new fleece top.

“Oh, I know,” she says. And then stops and blubbers out a few more sounds that are not even close to words.

She holds up the fleece pants. “That’s okay. It’s good . . . serm (unintelligible words) sometimes, if you have kids and put in . . . and. Oh my.. .  It’s . . . It may . . . The thought of what it'll, what it could be and knowing what it is . . . Good."

And so our conversation continues. Her words giving hints of the thoughts she is having.

And when all words seem beyond her reach, she descends into the basic rudiments of language. Vowels and consonants. Phonemes.

Only on occasion does she evidence a hint of frustration at the words not coming. Mostly she prattles on. 

The glossalalia that she opposed as Baptist preacher’s wife. She seems to create that now. Her own private language.

And I act like I understand.  We have a conversation.

Oh, it is a guessing game but because I know her so well and have listened over years as her thinking and articulation became simpler and more confused—because of this, I do understand. Usually.

And today, she opened a Christmas card I had sent her, and read my name and looked up at me. I assured her that was me and she indicated she knew this was Etta because the name was on the outside (the return address).

I pull out a tub of pop beads hoping to interest her in an activity.  I make a necklace for her. A bracelet. A ring for each pinkie and she coquettishly holds her hand up to her face and smiles. Then laughs.

But mostly she holds her stuffed animal today. “It’s soft,” she says. “You could almost see a baby in it.”

“Uh huh,” I say. “Uh huh.”