The Dictionary of Lost Words

by Pip Williams

Bill laughed. “What’s so funny?” “Nothing. It’s just that you don’t speak often, but when you do it’s perfect.” I looked down and rubbed my hands together. “And I love that you never talk about hats,” Bill said. “Hats? Why would I talk about hats?” “Women like to talk about hats.” “Do they?” “The fact you don’t know that is what will make me fall in love with you.” Suddenly, every word I ever knew evaporated.

When I was with her I felt I might do something extraordinary. With her gone, I feared I never would.

I feel as though I’ve only begun to understand who I am. Being a wife or a mother just doesn’t fit.”

Your constant use of the English language is, in fact, doing it a disservice.”

So often, the words chosen by the men of the Dictionary had been inadequate.

I sat at a bench worn smooth by long-dead generations of scholars and wondered how many had been women.

Please keep me close. Write to me, visit me, lean on me as heavily as you must.

I have no way of describing the wrenching of my soul when the ember of a fag still glows in the mud, though the lips that held it have been blown away. I lit that fag, Es. I knew it would be his last. This is how we do it. We light fags, we nod, we hold their gaze. Then we send them over the top. There are no words.

I’ve always loved how Lizzie calls you Essymay. I’ve wanted to call you that myself; it’s been there, on the tip of my tongue. But it’s hers. It’s everything you were before I met you. Is that why I love it?

Was that what it meant to be a daughter? To have hair that smelled of your mother’s? To use the same soap? Or was it a shared passion, a shared frustration?