母语：当词语死去，怪物便诞生

I’d orchestrated the bedtime routine flawlessly: bath (taken), teeth (brushed), potty (tinkled), books (two), song (one, poorly sung), and snuggle (his chin on my second rib). Now was the moment when our son’s eyelids were supposed to flutter gently closed, his breath sighing into a slower rhythm. Like clockwork; like magic. You remember how easy it was, don’t you? All those nights you were at his side instead of me? “Well, kiddo,” I said, scratching my beard. “Words aren’t really alive to begin with. Not like you and I are alive.” “Not like Mommy was alive?” The way he said the word Mommy: Like a word he’d already started to unlearn. A lump caught in my throat. “Right. …