I am the child who cannot talk. You often pity me, I see it in your eyes.
You wonder how much I am aware of. I see that as well. I am aware of much ..
Whether you are happy or sad or fearful, patient or impatient, full of love
and desire, or if you are just doing your duty by me. I marvel at your
frustration, knowing mine to be far greater, for I cannot express myself or
my needs as you do.

You cannot conceive my isolation, so complete it is at times. I do not gift
you with clever conversation, cute remarks to be laughed over and repeated.
I do not give you answers to your everyday questions, responses over my
well-being, sharing my needs, or comments about the world about me. I do not
give you rewards as defined by the world's standards...great strides in
development that you can credit yourself; I do not give you understanding as
you know it.