A Brief Conversation

[This is a free-writing crosspost from http://www.xrivo.com/works/view/611.  You may find it more readable there.  Developed from the writing prompt "Tell the story of two people having a discussion, though one character barely speaks English."]

He's ignoring me again.  He ignores most of us and I can't really blame him, because we make the the most apallingly ridiculous conversation with him.  I try to speak to him differently; like I would speak to another member of the family.  Just because he can't talk like us is no reason for us to talk down to him.

I don't know that he understands me any better than the others.

"Dinner?  Do you want some dinner?"  I try again.

He looks at me, then back at his work without speaking.  *Whack, whack, whack* goes the hammer.

"We have sandwiches.  Do you want a sandwich?"  I mime putting a sandwich in my mouth.  "Sandwich?"

I'm pretty sure he knows "sandwich", but he just ignores me.  One of the kids turns on the television behind us, and the volume is loud enough to make me jump.  On it, Spiderman is making a snarky observation at a large villian in a rhinocerous suit.  The steady whacking of the hammer doesn't even pause.

"Do you want--" I have to collect myself, then speak over the television.  "Do you want some food?"

Nothing.  Annoyed, I reach for his hammer.  He yanks it away from my grip.

"Mine!" he shrieks.  He follows this up with a stream of gibberish that means something to him, I'm sure.

"Mine" is one of the few English words he has a solid handle on.  It's ridiculous, he has so much junk already, but God forbid you try to take any of it away.

"Look, can we just put this away and go eat?"

*Whack, whack, whack*

The kitchen gate squeals as it opens, and Momma leans out.

"Suppertime!" she bellows.

The hammer clatters to the floor and he's running toward the kitchen, wobbling, toddling.  Even at 18 months, he knows that when Momma calls it, supper is *actually* ready, and that Daddy is only trying to get him in his booster seat.

Defeated again, I creak to my feet.  Squatting kills my knees.  I could stay here, but supper is ready.