melancholy

Words, words, words. Words are a big part of my life, my girls' lives. I have two degrees in English literature; I work in public relations; I make a living using just the right word to convey the message - and I coach others on how to do the same. Words have always been big for the girls, too. From baby signs at ten months of age onward. Everything has to have a word for them. And if a new word pops up, they ask me for a definition.

While having to provide definitions on the spot and being treated like some sort of living dictionary can be frustrating, it is often an eye-opening experience. I never use a dictionary when they ask. We try to figure it out from context, or we feel our way through it, or sometimes I just make a gesture. We use words so much, that we sometimes forget their wider meaning. The word just is what it is. That definition, of course, just isn't good enough for my girls. So when we feel it out, I try to convey not just the literal meaning, but its undertones and sometimes its etymology.

So about a year ago, when we were listening to the radio and heard some old REM song, they asked me what the meaning of the lyrics was. I paused. Songs are a tough one; often the meaning is not in the words, but in the imagery and the tone of the music. So we talked through it a bit. Boo said, "so it's a sad song."

"Not exactly. It's melancholic."

"What's that?"

Good question, Boo. So I thought about it, and felt through it a bit and came up with this:

"Melancholy is when you have a happy memory of something, but you're sad because it's gone."

That's what I'm feeling tonight, that one word that means so much. Not for any one thing in particular. But there it is - and a vast expanse of it.