Chomsky

My daughter does not know the word, "mother,"

but my voice can sooth her from across the house.

She does not know my title, what to call me. What she does know

is that from the moment she became aware of her existence

she knew my voice.

That voice held her secure in a nourishing womb as it piped along, doing everyday things.

And when it became time to be born, that voice was loud and strained, yelling, moaning.

Now the voice is back to everyday things:

It means comfort, food, protection.

It means all of the things that the word "mother" means.

And the irony is, when it changes from a voice to a word, it will lose some of its value to her.

It will become, "yes, mother,"in frustration.

"Really, mother," in sarcasm.

" I hate you, mother," in anger.

And the voice that used to give meaning word "mother"

will take its meaning from it.