March 21, 2017

I walked to class this morning with dew on my shoes. The soles flattened each shoe-sized patch of grass, taking the cold and wet of the early morning drops along with my quickening steps. I thought about how when I was little, my mom would drop me off at my grandmother’s before she went to work. It was always early like this; the sky is light blue and expanding.

 I remembered how my mom would carry my brother inside, holding my hand as she walked into my grandmother’s house. I would trot behind her with my shoes in tow, baby feet squishing through the grass. Once inside, I fell asleep on my grandmother’s couch with damp heels waiting for the later morning, when I would wake up and pick out the grass shards from between my toes. 

I guess that’s why I ended up slipping off my sandals before class this morning. I saw the dew, and I needed to know – everything still reminds me a bit of home. 


Your First Word

“People will never understand one another unless language is reduced to seven words.” – Khalil Gibran

In seven words, I couldn’t explain why I thought piercing my own ear was a good idea. I couldn’t tell the story about the catfish my mom had to pull out of my leg. I couldn’t describe every kiss I’ve had in my life, or what each one meant.

I’d shy away from expressing love. I wouldn’t even say I was sorry.

A language without synonyms, without diction, and without prose is nothing I can bear to speak. 082-5

With seven words, every letter would be the beginning of another sentence for me.

How would I tell my little brother that he is the best thing that’s ever come into my life, that every time he speaks, it’s the greatest thing I’ve heard. Could I adequately describe the physical loss I feel each time a tall and shaggy blond boy turns around on campus, and it’s not him? Would I be able to say that I’m proud of him? Would I be able to speak at all?

And how would I thank my mother for every stupid thing she’s ever talked me out of? Could I still express my gratitude for her honesty about all the boys I’ve dated, and could I say it loud enough? Would I waste a word just to call her “Mom”?

How would all my phone calls to my grandmother end? Where would they start? Is there room for the stories I want to share? Who knows how many syllables we’ve shared between the two of us. There are days when there is nothing I want more than her advice; can she give it in seven words?

In seven words, my dad would be the only one satisfied. How many times has he asked me to skip to the point?

I think I ran out of words a while ago. Do you understand?