Page 145 of The Sound of Him

The plant.

But how do I explain that?I don't know the sign for ‘plant’ and my brain doesn't want me to write. Doesn't want to give me the letters I need.

“Draw me it, Matt. It’s alright. Draw it for me. Take your time, yeah? I'm not going anywhere. Just try to draw it.”

And Ican.

I can do that.

I can draw it.

Avoiding the spot where my pen had stabbed a little hole through the paper just now, I draw him a pot. The edges are kind of wobbly from my shaking hand. The stem of my little plant is wobbly too. But it's still clearly a plant.

Cilantro.

It had been cilantro.

When I’d finally managed to grow it right, mamá had used it to makesancocho, letting me help her. We’d listened to music together.. The window had been open, a breeze coming in.

She’d said, “This isn’t home, but sometimes, if I close my eyes, it could be.”

I’d asked for another story. I loved the Venezuela stories. They were always happy stories if we were in the kitchen or the garden. She saved the sad ones for nights by the fire, when we'd cuddle up together and sip her hot cocoa.

I don’t remember the story from that day, but I remember that it wasmycilantro we cooked with.Mycilantro that helped her feel more at home.

I write,CILANTRO. Then, beneath that, I write,MY FIRST PLANT WAS BAD TOO. BETTER LATER.

He takes the notebook when I hand it to him, both of us leaning over the coffee table to meet in the middle. I watch him trace the plant with his fingertip, one leaf, the other, then down the stem. He doesn’t seem to mind that it's purple instead of green. It’s the only pen I have tonight.

“Cilantro, huh? I don’t remember what mine was. It wasn’t something you could eat, though. I remember it was just supposed to be pretty or whatever. It didn’t look pretty by the end of that first week, let me tell you.” He laughs to himself before handing the notebook back and asking, “You killed your first one, too? But eventually got better?”

I nod and draw a bowl with a spoon. My heart aches, but it’sgood.

This isso good.

I draw a hunk of corn with all its little kernels and a cut up yuca and sliced peppers. I draw beef, which looks the same as any other meat in my purple pen, or maybe even like a vegetable,so I draw an arrow and write,BEEFbecause that was my favorite and that feels important for him to know. It’s probably stupid.

Really stupid.

I think about crossing it out, but I think that would be even more stupid.

I just try to forget I did it, moving on to draw a few little squares and draw an arrow from one to the already writtenCILANTRO.

Then, beneath the bowl, I write,SANCOCHO.

He takes it again. He does more of that tracing with his fingertip. I… I really likethat. It’s like he’s listening to the story, even though the story has no words. It’s like he’s experiencing it.

I watch as he traces the shapes, as he maps out each little kernel on the corn

My favoritetypeof sanchoco is beef, but my favoritepartof sanchoco was always,alwaysthe corn.

He’s giving it so much attention.

He'slistening.

I’ve never been able to really look at his fingers before. His hands, yes. Usually because he’s signing. Even then, I could only register that they’re big and they move easily, fluidly, like he’s dancing with them.

His fingers are long. Slim.