Sometimes mornings are running dialogues where one of the players has the most lines. The third grader is the star with the second player, her mother, interjecting a few pointers along the way. The thoughts that are most prominent will be repeated, possibly over and over, until they are sufficiently acknowledged and understood. It seems as though this dialogue—which, let’s face it, is really a monologue—takes precedence over all else while the second and more lowly player believes that getting dressed, brushing teeth and eating breakfast are the more worthwhile activities. Sometimes the star of the show recalls Very Important Activities, like saying goodbye to her goldfish, that all of a sudden must be done before she walks out the front door. It is the second player’s job to think and act quickly, assuring the star why the fish will be fine without an adieu.

Eventually the first player carries her monologue-dialogue out the door with her. This morning it was carried into her Papa’s car and what happened there I cannot say, though I certainly can imagine. All the words and important thoughts and stories to tell are sucked out that door with her, like a vortex that leaves silence in its wake. All the flurried energy goes with her and behind her there is great silence that envelopes all the second player’s thoughts like a thick blanket. Quiet, stillness remains.

Soon enough the star will choose different words to express herself. She may share her lines with someone else on most days or perhaps even take them to an internal place to sort out before relying on the second player. I enjoy this thought as I sit in front of my computer with a cup of coffee at hand. Someday these words about little things will become words about big things and they will have power to change the world, a few characters at a time.