A Bedtime Conversation on Words and Worries

As he nestled against me, my son Theo posed a profound question that caught me off guard. "Daddy? Where do words go when they die?" Our bedtime routine had been perfectly executed, from bath time to storybooks, and I expected him to drift off to sleep. But this unexpected inquiry pulled me into a deeper realm of thought.

In my attempt to clarify, I explained, “Words aren’t really alive, kiddo, not like you and I are.” Theo’s innocent probing revealed his grasp on an unsettling reality. The mention of 'Mommy' from him sent a pang through my heart, reminding me of the absence that loomed large in our small family.

“But words do die,” he insisted, clearly influenced by something he’d heard recently. I realized it was likely a discussion overheard at preschool, perhaps about languages that had faded into obscurity. “You mean dead languages?” I suggested. “They exist only in books or on stone.”

Theo pondered this, then conjured an imaginative vision of a dark cave where a monster consumed these dead words, growing larger with each one. His vivid imagination painted a picture of a monster that, as he whispered, might come out to eat me, too. I felt a chill run down my spine at his words, a reminder of the weight of promises made to protect.

As Theo drifted into slumber, murmuring about the monster and perhaps a strange warmth inside it, I quietly left the room, needing to process the weight of our exchange. I sought out help from Theo’s Amby, a household assistant, and asked about the significance of the words he had mentioned. “Maheka morgeth,” I learned, meant “The eternal cycle is beautiful.” A profound thought for a four-year-old.

In the kitchen, I scrolled through the news, hearing the concerns of world leaders regarding a communication crisis with an entity known as Tingsu, which was linked to Belsath, a nuclear-armed nation. The reports were grim, detailing failed attempts to engage with a language that was treated as sacred by its people. The American president’s threats to take aggressive action added to the mounting tension.

As I washed Theo's lunchbox, the juxtaposition of my domestic routine and the escalating global crisis weighed heavily on my mind. I contemplated the fear that had been stirred by the news, but I also felt a strange sense of relief. After years of societal transformation led by Ambys and Calmbys, I realized that the dread I once felt about technological advancement now had a tangible name. The looming threat was identifiable, and in some strange way, it felt contained.

The next morning, life continued as usual. Theo played with his Amby, singing a cheerful morning song that celebrated the simple joys of getting dressed. The Ambys had a remarkable way of turning mundane tasks into enjoyable activities, making life easier for parents and children alike. I wished I could create such engaging moments for Theo myself, but my tired mind struggled.

While preparing for work, I sent a voice note to the Amby app, sharing Theo's monster story and its likely origin in the Tingsu news report. The app acknowledged my note and promised to create a lesson plan about extinct languages for Theo. I wanted to be the one to discuss it with him, to be the guiding voice in this formative moment.

Source: www.technologyreview.com