Say It, Say It

When I was a kid my mom would point at flowers and say their names out loud.

"This is Adelfa." she said one day as we walked around my grandmother's garden.

"Bandera Espanola."

"Dona Aurora."

Now throughout these exercises I would mutely look at her and then the flower. I probably would nod, or raise my eyebrows as I cock my head to one side to indicate recognition, but I would never say anything. I wasn't being belligerent. I was being 6.

Invariably my mom would take me by the shoulders gently and say, "Say it." She wanted me to say the names of the flowers out loud, in what I suppose she thought was an effective pedagogical technique.

"Say it."

"Say it."

And eventually, I would come around. Turn away from her and mumble a sound I thought mimicked the name I just heard.

Last night I was chatting with someone. I'd been wanting to tell this person so many things since we met again. I could hear an imaginary voice in my head that was egging me on.

"Say it."

"Say it."

And so I did. Well, I sort of did.