Your garden is not complete until there is nothing more you can remove from it.
Words can do at least two things, sometimes too much.
My mother showered me with dozens every day. When she began to lose the words she loved even more than me, I remembered this. She could not name a peony or rose, could not remember honey is the perfect food, never spoils because it kills bacteria. A distance grew between her self and things, imperceptible as a displacement of the air when one you love walks by. One night, we were alone, before the mirror in her room.