Words Made Things Stay

Today is April 31.

I write it the same way every morning. Even though the days don’t move like they used to and no one is checking. Even though the numbers have started to feel like guesses more than facts.

I still write the month out. April. All the way through. Momma used to say numbers could slip, but words made things stay where you put them.

You watch me when I do it. Not the writing itself. Your eyes don’t follow the page anymore. They stay on my hand, the way it moves. The way I press too hard sometimes, like I’m trying to carve the date into something that won’t give it back.

“Again?” you ask. You still have words. Just not all of them. Just not the ones that hold.

“Yeah,” I say. “Again.”

You nod like that makes sense. Like it’s enough. You used to explain it to me. You’ve always been the one explaining things between us. You used to ask me the same questions over and over when we were younger to make sure I understood. Back when answers came easier, or maybe just faster.

You used to say: April comes before May. There are thirty days. Thirty-one in some months, but not this one. You used to draw it out, show me how time stacked, how it moved forward even when everything else didn’t.

Now I just write it down and let it be wrong. I tell myself writing it down is the same as keeping it. But sometimes I wonder if it’s just another way of-

I stop.

The word is there. I can feel the shape of it in my mouth. I just can’t pull it through. I press the pen harder into the page, like that might make it come back.

Today is April 31.

I turn the page so you can see it anyway. You lean in. Close enough that I can feel your breath. For a second, I think you recognize it. Not the meaning, but the feel of it. The way it used to mean something to both of us.

You smile. “Good,” you say. I don’t know what you think is good. I don’t ask.

We leave before the light settles in. Across the street, the same door hangs open as yesterday. Someone painted a word across it weeks ago, big enough to read from here. The letters have started to disappear, the paint breaking down before the meaning can.

I pack the notebook first. Always first. It’s heavier than it should be. Not because of the pages, but because of what’s in them. Names. Sayings. Things Momma used to repeat like they were how-to instructions for surviving a world that hadn’t broken yet. The rest of the bag changes depending on what we can still find. Less and less of it comes from places that used to have names.

She used to make both of us repeat them, the sayings. I would get it wrong first, then you would repeat it back for the both of us. I didn’t know what they were for then.

The first few pages aren’t mine. Her handwriting is still there, pressed deep into the paper like she expected it to last. It lasted longer than she did. I don’t write over those. I haven’t written them all down. I don’t write everything the way she said it. Some of it doesn’t survive on the page. Some of it only works in a voice. In movement.

That’s what I tell myself to keep moving.

It doesn’t take everything at once. I’ve seen that much. It takes what you use the most. What you think you can’t lose.

You stand by the door, waiting. You don’t rush me, but you don’t sit either. You’ve learned that waiting means we’re leaving. That still holds. I adjust the strap for my bag again. It never sits right. Either too loose to trust or too tight to ignore. “Ready?” I ask. You shrug. Then, after a second, you nod.

Ready is another word that doesn’t mean much anymore.

***

On the road, I try again. I always try again.

“This,” I say, pointing to the mark I scratched into the cover last night. “This means home.” It’s the same shape Momma used to draw with her finger in the air when we were little: a quick loop and a line, like closing something and keeping it.

I try to slow it down, to make the moment smaller so it can fit inside the explanation. You look at it too long. Then at me.

“Home,” you repeat, but your voice rises at the end like it’s a question that never got answered. Soft. Unanchored. Like a word you found instead of one you knew.

I nod anyway. Too quickly. “Yeah. Home.”

For a second, I see it the way she used to do it. Not written. Just said, and somehow that was enough to make it stay. I’m trying to do the same thing, just… differently. I don’t know if this way will hold.

You smile like you’ve done something right.

I write it down before it disappears. I tell myself it will only take a moment. It never does. It takes longer than it should.

When I write, I am not with you. When I am with you, I am already forgetting something else.

The notebook bounces against my side with every step. Not loud. Just present. Like it’s reminding me it exists.

Something in the air shifts before I can name it.

I slow without meaning to.

***

By midday, we hear them. Not close. Not yet. But close enough that we both feel it. Instinctively, we reach for each other without looking. At least that hasn’t changed.

I take your hand and walk faster. I feel the notebook with each step, a quiet insistence. Every few minutes, I want to stop. Just long enough to write something down. The way the air smells different out here. The way you said home like it was a question. Things that feel important. Things that might not last.

“We have to keep moving,” I tell you.

You nod. A minute later, you slow down.

“Wait,” you say. I almost don’t. That’s the part I don’t write down.

But you’ve stopped walking. Your hand slips from mine, not all the way, just enough to make me notice I don’t completely have you. I turn to you. You’re looking back the way we came, head tilted, trying to hear something I can’t.

“Come on,” I say. Quieter now. “We have to keep going.”

You don’t move.

“Wait,” you say again. The word lands heavier this time.

Behind us, something shifts. Not loud. Not close. But wrong.

The notebook knocks against my hip in a steady rhythm, like a second heartbeat that doesn’t belong to me.

I feel it in my chest before I hear it. The air tightens. The world holds its breath when something is about to break.

“We can’t wait,” I say.

You look at me then, and I see it. Not fear. Not exactly. Confusion. Like I changed the rules in the middle of something you were starting to understand.

I reach for you again, but my hand pauses before it reaches yours. Because I remember. The mark on the notebook. The word I gave you.

Home.

I used to say home like it was something you could return to. Now it feels like something you have to recognize before it disappears.

If you don’t understand that, then what am I doing? If you don’t understand anything, then what survives?

“Listen,” I say, too fast now. Too urgent. “Look at me.”

You do.

I pull the notebook out. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But my hands are already moving. “See this?” I say, flipping to the page, pressing it open like I can force meaning into it. “This is what I showed you. This means-”

The sound behind us comes again.

Closer.

You flinch.

“-this means home,” I finish, my voice breaking on the word. You look at the page. Then at me.

And for a second, just a second, something clicks. Not in your face. In your body. Your fingers twitch like you’re about to trace the shape. Like you already know how it’s supposed to feel. Your mouth opens, like the word is sitting right there, ready.

“Ho-”

It slips.

Your hand drops. Your face tightens, frustration flashing through before it disappears.

“Home,” you say again. But it’s wrong. Not the sound. The weight of it. It doesn’t land anywhere.

“Here,” I say, desperate now. “Here, like… like where we came from. Like Momma. Like the kitchen. Like-”

I stop. The word is right there. The one I need. The one that would make it make sense. I can see it. I can almost say it. But it won’t come. My mouth stays open a second too long.

Momma used to say if you had to explain something twice, it meant the first time wasn’t strong enough to stand on its own.

Because even as I say it, I can feel it slipping. The kitchen doesn’t exist anymore. Momma isn’t here to stand in it. The word is floating, unattached. I’m asking you to hold something that isn’t there.

You shake your head. Small. Frustrated.

“I don’t-” you start. And then you stop. Behind us, something moves through the brush. Not far. Too close. My heart stutters.

I look at you. At the page. At the space between us where the meaning is supposed to be. I could close the notebook. I could take your hand. We could run. Instead, I point again.

“Just… just remember this,” I say. “This shape. This mark. If you see it, it means you’re safe. It means-”

You can’t carry everything and still move. It comes back to me the way she used to say it. Not loud. Not gentle, either. Just very certain.

And under it, quieter. Her voice whispers: God didn’t give you hands just to hold onto things.

I feel it then. Not as a thought. As a hesitation. My hand still hovering between you and the page.

I choose wrong.

I keep thinking if I hold onto everything, something will remain. But holding on is starting to feel like another way of losing.

The sound comes again. Louder. You turn toward it.

That’s when I realize I’ve already lost the moment. Not you. The moment. The chance to move when we should have moved. I snap the notebook shut.

“Run,” I say. This, you understand. You grab my hand and pull. And just like that, we move.

Simple. Clear.

The way Momma used to say it mattered.

***

We move fast now, crashing through what used to be a path. My bag slams against my side, the notebook inside it, a hard, accusing weight. Branches catch on our clothes. The ground dips where it shouldn’t. I almost fall once, twice.

Behind us, the sound follows. Not rushing. Not frantic. Just certain. Like it knew we would hesitate. Like it was waiting for it. A voice breaks the silence behind us, trying for something like a word and missing it. The sound that comes out after isn’t empty. Just… rearranged.

Your grip tightens.

“Go,” you say. Simple. Clear.

You pull me forward, and for a second, something inside me steadies. Not the words. Not the writing. Just this. Your hand in mine. Your voice, even if it’s smaller now. Still here.

Something moves wrong through the brush behind us, too fast in bursts, then stopping like it forgot what it was doing. When it makes a sound, it almost lands on a word, then doesn’t.

We don’t stop until the sound disappears. Or maybe we just get far enough that we can pretend it did.

When we finally slow, I reach for the notebook. It’s instinct. Like breathing. My fingers find the edge of it, already pulling it free. I need to write this down. How close it was. How you said run without hesitation. How the word home didn’t mean anything when it mattered.

I need to keep it. I need-

If I don’t, it goes. That’s how it works now. Things don’t stay unless I make them. Your voice. Momma’s words. The shape of what we almost lost. All of it, gone, like it was never here.

You can’t carry everything and still move. This time it isn’t a memory. It’s a weight. My grip tightens. For a second, I almost pull the notebook all the way out anyway. You touch my arm. I look up. You shake your head. Not hard. Not urgent. Just… no. Then you take my hand again. Squeeze.

“Here,” you say. Just that. Something passes between us. Not a word. Not something I can write down. But I understand it.

For a second, I don’t move. I hear Momma again. God didn’t give you hands just to hold onto things.

Not to the notebook. To this.

For the first time today, I understand something without needing to name it. My grip on the notebook loosens.

Just a little.

***

Today is April 31.

This will be the last thing I write. Not because there is nothing left to say. Because I tried to keep everything, and it cost us time I can’t get back. Steps I should have taken. Moments I should have stayed inside.

I almost lost you with a pen in my hand. You don’t remember the word I tried to teach you. Home. I do. That’s the problem.

You are watching me now. Not the page. Just my hands. Waiting. I think you’ve been waiting for me to stop. I close the notebook. Not all the way. Just enough.

The first pages press up beneath my palm. Her handwriting, still there. Deep. Certain. Like she knew it wouldn’t always be hers to finish. My hand stays there a second too long. Like I’m deciding whether to carry it forward or leave it where she left it.

You reach out. Not fast. Not urgent. Just enough.

I let go. We sit there.

The date-

April-

It slips.

Thirty-

No.

I don’t-

I can’t-

You take my hand.

“Here,” you say. I nod. No more writing. You lean against me. Your hand closes around mine, firm this time. Not waiting. Not asking. Holding.

I understand. Not the word. Not even the shape of it.

Just-

This.

This story was influenced by Octavia E. Butler's "Speech Sounds."

I found science fiction young, and for a long time, everyone in it looked the same. Butler was the first Black woman I encountered doing something I was learning to love. I wasn't ready for her then. I think because I wasn't ready for myself. I've spent my adulthood catching up to what she already knew.

I don't know exactly what it was about "Speech Sounds" that moved me. Its attention to language, to its absence, or to what remains between people when words fail. Only that I knew, before I'd even finished it, that I needed to write toward it.

This is my attempt.