What happens when the language of social media quietly slips into our homes? When presence needs alerts, and affection needs notification? A small moment with my daughter turned into a meditation on vocabulary in the digital age.
Today, my daughter asked me —
casually,
while both of us were perfectly, physically
at home —
Amma, why didn’t you send me a notification
about the grapes you bought
and kept in the kitchen?
Notification.
The word rolled across the room
like a misplaced emoji.
I laughed —
but somewhere inside,
a small seed split open.
Since when did fruit
require an alert?
Since when did love
need a pop-up reminder?
Once upon a time,
we called out from the other room.
Now even presence
waits for a ping.
Vocabulary has shifted its furniture.
Offline life now borrows
the grammar of screens.
When you find new friends —
you add them.
When someone exhausts you —
you delete them.
Memories are archived.
Affection is scheduled.
Silence becomes “seen.”
A friend rushing past
no longer waves —
she pings a hurried bye.
Language updates quietly.
We don’t notice the patch.
But slowly,
the heart begins to speak
in notifications.
And yet—
In the kitchen,
the grapes waited,
cool and patient,
unaware
they had failed
to announce themselves.
Perhaps tomorrow
I will stand in the doorway
and call her name aloud —
no alert tone,
no vibration —
just a voice,
arriving
without Wi-Fi.
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