I remember sitting in the classroom one afternoon. I was still in the second year infants.
Our reading books were simple- just a picture and the word underneath.
Mrs. Ainsworth called me to her desk with my book and we went through the words page by page.
When we came to the next word in the book I just looked at it- blankly.
Mrs. Ainsworth pointed to each individual letter and pronounced them slowly- one by one.
“j-u-g.”
I said nothing.
"j-u-g."
I couldn't read it- I didn’t know it.
I recognised the picture- Mum had one- Nanna Jones had one, but no one had ever actually called it by name.
The letters meant nothing. I couldn’t connect sound to image. I couldn’t connect anything at all.
I cried.
Looking back now, I understand something: not every silence is ignorance. Sometimes it's simply experience that hasn't yet arrived. A jug, to me, was still waiting to be poured into my world.