Eight

“Eight,”

I announce when Heidi asks,

“What’s today’s number?”

Everyone else is confused.

But I know

she means the digit

on the calendar square,

because my words often take

the scenic route

from my brain

to my tongue.

The refrigerator is the food apartment.

Eggs, berries, and almond milk rent spaces,

looking down on the leftovers,

until it’s time for them to move out.

The lawnmower I struggle to power on

is also known as the grass barber machine,

buzzing and cutting

overgrown blades.

When I can’t recall the word,

I don’t think of it as lost,

like one of the socks

that never returns from the dryer,

but more like a guest

at a masquerade party.

They are themselves,

only in disguise,

a little fancier,

than their everyday life.

My daughters laugh

when I rename everyday things:

the nap docking station for tired bodies,

the scalp rake for head noodles.

Later I hear them sharing the stories,

imitating me gently,

like they’re carrying a bird with a broken wing

and want people to see it, to nurture it.

One night

I ended a phone call with my lover by saying

“rest in peace.”

I should have known then

we were doomed

when he couldn’t translate that

into

sleep well.

Maybe that’s how you know

you’ve found your people,

your tribe,

your weirdos—

when upper management in your head

restructures the vocabulary,

your people hear your wrong words

but know exactly what you mean.

Maybe language grows like love.

Not in dictionaries.

Not in lesson plans.

But in kitchens spilling secrets and wine,

in living rooms solving puzzles with missing pieces,

in cars singing off-key and laughing,

with people who understand you

even when you say it wrong.

So when Heidi asked,

“What’s today’s number?”

I knew exactly what she meant.

Eight.