All seven of our kids tumbled out of the Suburban, each carrying a part of the dinner, racing to join their cousins.
It was Sunday dinner at Granddaddy’s house—a cacophony of laughter, games, teasing, and good food. And today was a favorite: Aunt Stella’s red enchiladas. Add Uncle Asi’s charro beans, Aunt Carri’s apple pie, Aunt Hannah’s guacamole, and our Mexican rice, and it was a feast in every sense of the word. The sharp scent of lime and cilantro rose from the kitchen, and the warm, spiced steam of enchiladas filled the house, as the clatter of serving spoons against ceramic dishes made the background music.
The kitchen buzzed with last-minute garnishes and ongoing banter, the playful competition between cooks as each claimed superiority, spoons clinked against pots, and I wiped my hands on a flour-dusted towel.
Hannah finally called everyone to the tables—four of them now to hold the growing crowd. The children clustered in groups, cousins pairing off by age, chattering about chores, pets, and school.
Only five-year-old Christopher lingered outside.
He stood at a distance, head tilted slightly, watching from the corners of his eyes. Every now and then he bounced on his tiptoes, a little prance of contained energy, gravel crunched softly under his shoes. He followed a few yards behind as the family moved inside—then suddenly, something sparked.
His eyes lit up with some idea. His eyebrows shot high. The bounce in his step lifted his soft, dark feathery bangs. Darting into the house, weaving between aunts and uncles, he made his way straight to Granddaddy’s chair.
Up on his tiptoes, he covered his mouth, gave a loud cough, and followed it with a very deliberate and masculine clearing of the throat. Quite a loud noise for his size. We all laughed. We knew this ritual.
Granddaddy—my father—had been battling cancer for some time now, and with it had come a constant cough. Somehow Christopher had noticed it… and though he still couldn’t talk learned to imitate this perfectly. And somewhere in his mind, that cough had become a form of communication. So Dad responded every time.
Christopher would rush in, stand beside Dad’s arm, cover his mouth, cough, clear his throat, then lift his eyebrows and wait. Dad would cough back, his chest tightening with the effort, the soft rasp of it familiar now to all of us. And Christopher would erupt—jumping, laughing, and shrieking with delight. Dad’s beard would tremble with laughter… and maybe something else, too.
We finally gathered at the table. Stories circled seamlessly—toddler antics, school lessons, news from trips. Dad loved it all. Loved hearing what everyone was learning, where everyone had been, what life was unfolding into.
Between stories came the teasing.
“Hey, Hannah,” Asi called out, lifting his chip with exaggerated admiration, “this is the best guacamole I’ve ever had… but don’t tell Hannah I said so.” A ripple of laughter moved around the table.
Hannah didn’t miss a beat. Though she was often the target, she gave as good as she got. More than once, I’d seen her quietly swap bowls of dip with someone else mid-meal, just to watch Asi praise the wrong one with full conviction.
“Oh, I won’t,” she said sweetly, reaching for the bowl. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.”
Glasses clinked. Someone reached for more beans. Then, the tone shifted. Dad shared the latest prognosis. The table quieted, and forks stilled. The air grew heavy with the kind of understanding that doesn’t have words.
I glanced at Christopher. For all his lack of language, he read a room better than anyone. His eyes moved quickly from face to face. A small crease formed in his brow. He looked up at me and fussed softly.
Then—just as suddenly—his expression cleared. An idea. He leaned around me where he could see Dad, lifted his hand, covered his mouth…and coughed. Dad coughed back.
The spell was broken, and the laughter returned, softer this time, but still real.
Christopher had never said yes or no. Not mommy. Not anything we could reliably understand. He echoed sounds—phrases here and there—but meaning remained just out of reach. So we’d begun learning sign language together.
I didn’t know it myself, not really—just the alphabet. So we sat side by side watching Signing Time, learning as we went. And slowly, we began to get it, and he began to use it. A bobbing fist for yes. Two fingers and a thumb snapping for no.
“Do you want a drink, Christopher?” Up shot his little fist. It bobbled. Yes. Just a beginning, but we were starting to speak!
After dinner, we gathered in the living room. Dad in his green armchair, the lamp casting a warm circle of light over his shoulder. Dan and I on the couch. Aber took the old rocker. Christopher sat on my lap, as always, watching, scanning, reading every face, every tone, every shift in the room.
“And how’s Christopher?” Abraham asked, his black eyebrows lifted above his glasses. Christopher glanced at him quickly, then away—but smiled.
And suddenly, I had a thought.
“Does Uncle Aber wear glasses?” The room went still. Christopher turned and studied him. His small wrist lifted and bobbled…Yes.
And then—soft, uncertain, his voice just above a whisper said, “…yes?”
The room held its breath. No one moved. I leaned forward, hardly daring.
“Does Daddy wear glasses?” He turned to Dan. His fingers snapped together the sign for no.
“No.” His little boy voice was louder and more certain this time.
“Does Grandmama wear glasses?” My own voice wobbled now. His hand rose again.
“Yes,” his voice and the sign simultaneously. His voice was strong and bright. Certain. Tears blurred my vision. Around me, others wiped their eyes. Dad reached for a tissue. It felt right—somehow—that all of us were there. That his first answers… were witnessed by those who loved him, his family. Together.
The night drew to a close. The last dishes were washed and counters cleared. The children ran with abandon, playing freeze tag in the yard under the stars, fireflies blinking in the warm dark, the hum of crickets rising from the grass. I called out the door,
“Kids—come say goodnight to Granddaddy and Grandmama!”
They lined up beside his chair, one by one pressing kisses to his cheek, just above his beard, then moving on to Grandmama. Christopher took his place in line. He didn’t kiss. Didn’t hug.
But when his turn came, he lifted his hand…covered his mouth and gave his cough. Laughter filled the room once more as Dad coughed back, his eyes crinkled in a laugh.
And I thought—who knew that love could have a language without words?
Awesome:)
So beautiful!