I can scarcely think of anything I'd rather record.

When he woke from a nap last week, Tuck said, "Celie talked. She talked."  I hope she continues to speak in his dreams for years to come.

When he finds a container that’s empty, he declares, "There's no something in this box."

When he wants to snuggle, he asks, "Will you sit benext to me?"

When we asked him, for at least the tenth time, to stop plucking the "white pine cones" from the peace lily buds, because it hurts the plant, he replied, "Lily is not sad.  She don't have any face."

When we shared some of his sister's special dresses with friends he saw them and said, "Those dresses are Celia's.  She was a girl."
He refers to her memorial service as "Celia's goodbye party."

He mixes tense, present and past.  He creates his own words, and his own realities.  He verbalizes delight without dialogue. 
And somehow his every expression, his every idea, alleviates a layer of sorrow.
When thoughts gallop through my head like wild stallions, the kind that can trample both spirit and sanity, it helps to take note of Tucker's talk.
JEB