Lost and Found

by Orson Scott Card

Father cut him off. “Stop being a language nazi,” he said. “What if I can’t bear to say the word ‘dead’? What if that word is a knife in my heart? What’s wrong with my joining the entire English language and saying that she’s lost? Just because you have this talent for finding things doesn’t mean that this wonderful woman isn’t lost to me.” Ezekiel put his hand over his mouth. “I didn’t mean you should stop talking,” said Father. “I just meant you should stop trying to shape the way I talk about my dead wife.” Ezekiel nodded. But he couldn’t take his hand away from his mouth because that was the gesture he always used to keep himself from crying. He didn’t know why it worked, but he had found out, when he was five, that covering his eyes didn’t work, turning his back didn’t work, looking away and trying to think of something else didn’t work. But for some reason covering his mouth made it so tears didn’t come to his eyes, and if he waited long enough, he could talk without his voice getting all high and whimpery. “Dad, you can say whatever you want,” Ezekiel finally said—mostly behind his hand. “I’m sorry.”

cue the tears, beautiful...