Between Two Tongues 

They say language lives on the tongue,
but my Albanian hides behind my teeth.
Somewhere between school bells and subway brakes,
my mother’s words began missing trains.

I still remember the gateway greeting-
the warm mirëmëngjes floating through the kitchen,
steam rising from strong black coffee,
spoons singing against old white cups.

Now my mouth stalls at family dinners.
My cousins speak fast as summer rain,
their laughter leaping across the room,
while I arrive late to every joke.

I trade Albanian verbs for awkward pauses.
I say “that thing” instead of truth.
My grandmother’s stories bloom around the table,
rich as fresh bread and mountain air,
but pieces slip through me like smoke.

I practice in mirrors at midnight:
rolling rough r’s like river rocks,
repeating phrases, repeating prayers,
trying to stitch sound back into skin.

Some words still survive.
Some stay sleeping.
Some stand stubborn in my throat,
small birds beating bruised wings.

At the grocery store, I whisper translations
between tomatoes, olives, and bright red peppers.
I name every fruit twice
like I’m rebuilding a bridge plank by plank.

There is grief in forgetting.
A quiet consonant-crack in the chest.
A homesick hum.
A missing music.

But there is also this-
my mother smiling when I finally answer in Albanian,
my father correcting me gently instead of laughing,
my family loving me through every broken sentence.

So maybe fluency is not perfection.
Maybe it is persistence.
Maybe my accent is not failure
but proof that I am still reaching home.

And every word I remember
is another piece of myself returning