Epilogue
E PILOGUE
L ITTLE ALIEN, I HAVE had enough. From now on, I wish to cease dealing with the business of words. The reason? I am very old. Now is as good a time as any to retire, take a vow of silence, or depart this world altogether. Also, I have come to realise that people actually care very little about humanity’s most interesting invention. When I tell people about some etymological quirk, they look for a door. When I tell people about the use and omission of the indefinite article in various regional dialects of the UK, they run for the hills.
Case in point: you seem to be resting your head on the armrest. Your eyes are closed and long, steady breaths are emerging through your nose. Are you asleep? Have you been listening to anything I just told you? I tried to tell you how it goes – this weary little wandering life of ours. I tried to explain the inner workings of our human family, and shed light on some fundamental linguistic concepts along the way. I may have banged on a bit, but I did my best. I came all this way to give you the heads-up, one word at a time. Did that mean nothing to you?
So many people would kill for such a story. So many would love to know which years are going to be good, which years are going to be bad, which people are going to turn up and when and why. Ordinarily, there are simply too many surprises. But we, as aliens, don’t need surprises. We need spoilers. We need hacks. Too often, we have none. Too often, we have no one. Too often, we have nothing.
Oh well.
Here, prop yourself up. Are you listening? Your mum will be downstairs soon, so I’ll make myself scarce. I don’t know if she would want to find a vision from the future chatting to her daughter. That would scare the living daylights out of most people. Though of course, your mum is not most people.
Don’t worry about her. She will figure it all out eventually. One day, she’ll read the right book at the right time. It will tell her what to do and when to do it. After that, all she’ll have to do is follow the instructions, put one foot in front of the other, say one word at a time. It’ll be OK, plain sailing, and sometimes even quite nice. After she finds that book, everything will be fine.
Maybe you could go look for it with her. You could search for it in the library. I imagine she will want to go there tomorrow, so maybe you could join her as she peruses the shelves. She needs to return some books. You could accompany her – hand in her old books and take out new ones. You could sit next to her as she reads her latest hoard on the sofa. How to Crochet . How to Grow Your Own Fruit and Vegetables . How to Write a CV . You could listen when she reads out a few salient points. You could nod politely and smile. Your mum doesn’t think you’re too young to learn about these things. When it comes to life, she thinks you just have to be prepared. And how else are you going to learn about the power of loamy soil?
As for advice, I’m not sure I have any. As for wisdom, I’ve none of that either.
It’s late now. I think I can hear your mum shuffling about upstairs. I think I can hear her thinking some thoughts.
She’s thinking So Your Child Is a Psychopath is a terrible book. It didn’t give her answers to any of her questions. All it did was give her more questions and cause her to feel mildly annoyed at the author. She places So Your Child Is a Psychopath on the to-return-to-the-library pile and does a big stretch. She really zoned out there. Or maybe zoned in is a more apt phrase. Either way, she got so absorbed by her reading that she forgot all about you – who has been downstairs this whole time – and your dad, who surely will be home soon.
She pokes her head around the living room door. Here you are, spark out, a dried-up blob of yoghurt still on you. Upon seeing the sorry sight of you, I imagine your mum berates herself internally. She really should have come down a bit earlier, sorted you out, made sure you are OK.
She scoops you up into her arms. You’re getting a bit too big for this. One of these days, you’re going to do her back in. For now, though, you do nothing but snore gently as she carries you upstairs, your body slung over her shoulder – much like a workman might carry a bag of workman stuff.
Upstairs, she plonks you in bed. You would think you’d wake up from the jolt, but no. You are still asleep. Your mum half smiles at you, before wetting her thumb with her tongue to wipe the yoghurt off your face. It only sort of works. She’ll attack you with a damp flannel tomorrow, she thinks, as she kisses you on the forehead and whispers goodnight. After this, she exits your bedroom, leaving the door open a crack just in case you like it this way. She doesn’t know if you do, though, because, of course, you’ve never actually said.
In any case, this is where she leaves you. At least till tomorrow. As it happens, it’s where I leave you too. Goodnight, Little Alien. I hope you sleep well. Good luck for the future. Safe travels and godspeed.