Start with the colors of the rainbow, then more. Add the animals
you’ve only seen in zoos. A turquoise elephant. Elefante turquesa.
Learn that the word for doll and wrist are the same. Learn to dance
cumbia in your schoolgirl plaid skirt, the same day you learn that
the word for blush or redhead is the name of a state you have never seen.
Make cómo se dice a regular addition to your vocabulary.
Like please. Like thank you. Like no more and stop and why.
Think often of the silver-blue Chevy where you and your brother
practiced, made zoos out of words, told stories and talked about school.
Years later, on the phone, you and your brother will talk in English.
On his end, Corpus Christi gusts and highway motor gallops.
On yours, university pianos and stuck laptop keys.
You’ll use Spanish at your jobs but not with each other.
You’ll talk about Argentina but never admit to him you miss it.
You’ll find reasons to hang up first.
Years later, you’ll sit at a bar with David and Marie, ciders
and laptops at hand, the wood of your table flimsy as rolled r’s.
Marie will ask the Spanish word for scorpion. You and David
will give different answers: escorpión and alacrán, consonants
like a crush of shells underfoot, the syllables still familiar.
You will search and find that both of you are right.
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Courtney Justus is a Texan-Argentinian writer living in Chicago. She earned her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of North Carolina Wilmington and is a 2022 Tin House YA Workshop alumna. Her work appears in Barrelhouse, Barnstorm Journal, Hobart, and elsewhere.