The Language Ghosts

When they died and I was continents away—when I walked through their empty house and packed their things—I saw the language ghosts. I saw the words everywhere in all the rooms. Unspoken words. Misspoken words. A turn of phrase I’d failed to grasp. An insult I could easily have turned aside, but helped deliver to its mark, thinking honesty was best. Did you know that words have fingers? They cling to you. They grasp your shirt sleeves as you try to move aside. They huddle miserably in corners, afraid to come forward; or they assault you in great washes of sentences, making you stumble or drown. So that you struggle to the surface, breathing in great gulps of air, as though you never tasted breath before. I saw them there. The language ghosts. I know now what my mother feared in all those empty rooms. And though I’ve sold the house and travelled to another world, I hear them still.