The bleak countryside flicks by, houses the same color as mud, walls the same color as mud, mud the same color as mud. A thick cotton sky meshes with the brown, sand-scape in a contrast-less mirage of forever.
For the moment the child is distracted by a picture book that doubles as a noisemaking device. He repeats the animal sounds made by the book in his shrill burble; he asks questions incessantly. After three hours, his parents can only muster mumbled unenthusiasm in response to his quandaries. The kind woman beside me explains that he "still speaks like each word were an achievement." This first insightful remark is succeed by several less profound ones like... "we are going up in altitude" (as we very obviously
pivot along inclined hairpin turns)... and "that is the sunset over the ocean".
Meanwhile, lil' sumo speaks words and phrases that hold only half meanings to him; the rhythm and intonation are what he can grasp. A phrase will be repeated at different pace and in different tones dozens of times before losing their shimmer. Later on in life, he will grow out of his baby fat and soon there after become bogged down by the pragmatic nature of conveying meaning. What a crying shame.