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.