The first time I said his name,
It sounded like crushed glass.
I couldn’t quite make it roll off my tongue,
So in stumbling pieces it went.
The next few times I said his name, he helped.
We’d practice and practice,
Drawing it out in sharp syllables and silent consonants.
He knew we were making progress, gluing the glass together,
Bit by bit.
Bit by bit.
Over time, I got better and better at his name.
He spent less time teaching me it,
Less time telling me how he loved me saying it.
I still practiced in front of the mirror though, sometimes;
Because someday, I’d be able to say it perfectly.
And eventually,
I could say it perfectly,
Not a chip in the glass.
Maybe,
It was all the practice,
Whispering his name over and over into my knees on the night that he’d left me,
His name whole and still and perfect,
The rest of the world,
Shattered.
hyperion*