Year One: September
In addition to taking him out to the garden everyday – where he ran around the garden a couple of times, exercising his newfound skill – the Nice Lady would sit by his cradle and read stories to him. The first time she had done that, Tom had been mesmerized. Now though, he found himself to be inexplicably bored. He could, to some extent, understand what the stories were about – princes rescuing princesses and dragons and castles. He knew what the different characters looked like because of the pictures that were drawn in the books. None of it seemed to pertain to real life and, as a consequence of this, he didn't find it interesting.
Tom puckered his lips and made a 'pop' sound. The Nice Lady looked up, startled. Tom did it again. The Nice Lady shut the book. Finally.
"This isn't really your type of story, is it dear?" she asked softly.
Tom…understood. He'd been trying to form words in the rare moments that he'd found himself alone. This seemed to be the perfect opportunity to put it to use.
"No," he replied, just as softly as she. For a moment, both Tom and the Nice Lady were startled. Then the Nice Lady broke into a smile, and Tom couldn't help a tiny smirk that made the ends of his lips curl up. Another skill mastered. Well, not quite mastered yet, but he would get there soon enough.
"That was your first word," the Nice Lady said, her eyes shimmering with tears that slowly began to spill over onto her cheeks.
Why was the Nice Lady crying? Surely this wasn't a bad thing? "Don't cry," Tom tried to say. Unfortunately, his 'r' sounded like a 'w'. Uh oh. The caretaker seemed to understand him nonetheless.
"Oh you wonderful boy. I'm crying because I'm happy," she sniffed and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
People cried when they were happy? What kind of world was this?
"Oh," Tom replied.
"Shall we go into the garden for a bit?"
Tom couldn't help the fervor that his eyes lit up with. He had been to the garden numerous times, but never when the sky was inky like it was now. He nodded eagerly. Standing in his cradle, he was pondering how to get down, when two hands wrapped around his small body and he was lifted up into cradling arms.
"I can walk," he declared, his little lips pouting.
"I know darling. I just enjoy carrying you."
When they were seated on a stone bench in the garden, the Nice Lady turned to him. "When children say their first words, they aren't usually able to keep up a conversation."
Tom looked down at his feet, his legs swinging back and forth. "I'm diffewent," he replied quietly.
The Nice Lady appraised him for a moment before replying. "Yes. You're special."
Tom looked up at that, and couldn't help a genuine smile gracing his features.
