It is a word.
A word that to anyone not of our family would be nothing but gibberish—a string of vowels and consonants arranged in an apparently random order, no more pleasing to say or hear than any other. It cannot be found sandwiched within the pages of the thickest dictionary of any language, and indeed, has never been written down in all its history. Nothing happens when it is said; no white doves flutter out from tall black hats, no brilliantly colored fireworks streak the sky with light.
But it does not need matter, because it means joy.
I do not know how many times I have heard the story of its inception—perhaps a hundred times, perhaps a thousand. The story itself has become a comforting old blanket, familiar and soothing. I have fallen asleep listening to it spoken, fallen asleep mouthing the words along with its teller. I have heard it in every voice from my mother’s quiet tones to Grandfather’s rumbling bass.
“Once upon a time,” he would begin, as the best of tales begin, “your Great, Great, Great, Great Grandmother had a most wondrous dream.” As a child, I would irreverently count the number of “greats,” which tended to vary. But the story that followed never changed in Grandfather’s version. He told of Great Grandmother’s dream of a fantastical encounter with an angel. In every variation (and between my many relatives, there were quite a few), the story ended with the angel entrusting the word, a mere whisper of sound, to Great Grandmother. The angel’s last words were always, “Care for it well, and it will bring you joy.”
And so it has. Perhaps Great Grandmother simply made up the word when she was younger than I am now, and the story of the dream is nothing but beautiful embroidery wrought by the years, but—what of it? Regardless of its true origins, it has come to mean not only joy, but an inseparable, ineffable mixture of unexpected happiness and hope and peace.
It is no stiff, unchangeable word, rigid and unbending, as many words are. Grandfather tells us that for him, the word will always make him think of Grandmother’s rose perfume, the vivid color of the ribbons she wore woven in her dark hair when he met her, the distinctive smell of spring—damp earth and young grass, the sound of clear silver bells ringing out gladly on a muffled, snowy day. Little details and memories that, to anyone else, would have no meaning.
I am not my grandfather, and the word has its own unique meanings for me. I think of the time my sister and I lay on our backs on the roof and gazed at the stars in an inky sky, the sweet-tart taste of small wild strawberries in the spring, bringing home my first squirming, fluffy calico kitten, the intoxicated exhilaration I felt after a perfect dance performance.
These are a few of my small moments of joy that, when added together and remembered all at once, have the power to lift my mind and spirit from any gloom. My personal joys that no one else shares in the world contained in a package of a few syllables.
Our word is not an intentional secret from the world, but exposed to many, it would become only a word, without individual meaning. It would be forced into the cold confines of conformity, and become just another word, another definition to memorize. And that is its secret—it has no definition, only connotation. It is alive—it gives back everything put into it.
Alone among so many words that exist only to hurt, to sadden, to depress, this one word remains the single most valuable thing my family could pass on, more than jewels and relics and money: many kinds of joy all bound up in a single word that will never tarnish or break.
Never believe that words have no power.
This was actually written for a short story contest-- which I did not win-- and I can't think what made me think of it. It's actually optimistic, which is kind of a change from my usual.
