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Imagine you are three years old and you’ve never seen the ocean because you live in Ohio but you’ve been playing with kites and climbing trees all morning and you can still hear the voices of the other kids outside but they seem so far away unlike the ceiling fan and the sheer curtains dancing in the breeze which together are filling up your consciousness in a pleasant foggy sort of way so that her voice goes right into the deepest parts of your brain; for one midday hour you dream of shells that sing away the ache from when the nose fell off your favorite bear, and smooth round stones as small as a world and as large as how it feels when your words come out all jumbled and the grown ups don’t fix the problem, the important problem, but just stare at you like what you are saying is not part of any language they comprehend.