saying names by bea mendoza

The first time he said my name, it felt

like the air the wind carries.

Like how your mother says “maybe” at the toy store, and

Crossing your fingers at a pinky swear, and

Texting “be there in five” from an hour away, and

Smiling with no teeth, and

How you shake, falter, hesitate, and they say “I know you don’t want to,

But you should.”

When he said my name, it felt like

shivering in the winter, and hearing him mutter

“I told you so,” from inside

His featherdown comfort, and

You laugh because he’s right, but

You didn’t think he’d hold it against you, and it’s like

You think it’s the right train but it isn’t, and

You think it’s chocolate but it’s raisin, and

You think it’s enough but it isn’t.

The last time he said my name, it was like

He didn’t know how.

Like a child holding a baby, and

Both are squirming, and

The cameras keep flashing, and

Everyone’s close to crying.

The first time she said my name, it felt

like coming home.

Like when it’s late at night, and your feet are heavy, and

The sidewalks glow from open windows, and

The buildings are silhouettes, and

The relief of recognition pulls your whole body to the front door, and

Your lungs are cleansed by the cool air of the foyer, and

Everything is familiar, whispering: “here,

There are no surprises.

Here,

You are allowed to be wrong.

Here,

You are allowed to be tired.

Here,

You are allowed to be, whatever you have to be,

Even

If

That’s

Nothing

At

All.”

When she said my name, it felt like

No truer words had ever been said, like

Language

was invented by her, like

Diction

was perfected by her, like

Sense

was made by her, and like

Mornings with bright eyes and black coffee, and

Sunlight pouring through the window, the day spilling with potential, and

Saying her name as if it’s

The only sound I’ll ever have to make, and

Hearing her say my name as if

There will be no last time.