It’s that feeling when a word is on the tip of your tongue. And then people try to guess what you’re thinking but they guess words that are foreign to you. Words that have no meaning to you. They say the word means the same but it’s hard to believe them. It doesn’t sound right. You want to shout, “NO! YOU’RE WRONG THAT’S NOT THE RIGHT WORD! IT MEANS SOMETHING DIFFERENT!” But you can’t. Because you don’t remember your own. I used to know the word, and all the foreign words too. But my shoe was untied that day. Oh that dark, dark day. Those concrete steps. The darkness. The pain. The confusion. The realization. The old tennies with the loose laces. Shoes shouldn’t be able to change your life. Except maybe Louis Vuittons, those changing your life I would understand. But dirty aqua Vans with neon pink soles and matching laces. Laces that came untied easily. Those shouldn’t change your life. If I had been wearing flip-flops, or flats, or boots, or moccasins, or sandals maybe it would all be different. Maybe I would still remember the word.

The others think they know the word. And maybe they know a synonym but it’s not my mine. I had my own. Everyone has their own and they take it for granted. I took it for granted. That I would always know it. The concept that it could be lost is simply one of soap operas. But then I lost mine. And people tell me about pieces of my word. A high curve of the “H”. An extra squiggle of the “E”. I see these pieces and people try to tell me this is my entire word. But I know there is more to my word than meets the eye.

Some wish they could lose pieces of their word. The dark parts. The thick edge of the “R”, the sharp end of the “T”. No one want those. But everyone wants the curve of the “O” and the curl of the “Q”. But no one wants to lose their whole word. Because you only get one word. To build and grow with. To add your own pretty “O”’s and ugly “R”’s. My word was taken. Taken by those dirty shoes. Those shoes I continue to wear everyday, making sure to tie the laces tight. Taken by those cement steps. Those steps that have been since covered with plastic. To make them more safe. So no one else loses their word.

My life is that word. People tell me these memories and there is no spark of recognition. These memories are foreign to me. I want to tell them they’re wrong. But I can’t. Because I don’t know either.