Sometimes Never

Talking, we begin to find the way into our hearts, we who knew no words, words being a rare commodity in those countries we left behind. Both refugees and similarly deprived, we marvel at the many things there are to say: so many variations and colors of the same thought, so many different lengths in the words that line up together on our tongues. No scarcity, no rationing, no waiting in line in order to buy the same answer we heard each time we asked, that one word, owned by the state, manufactured by the state, serving all purposes equally alike: No, No, No, and sometimes Never.