Her voice, hoarse, was an unmistakable echo down the corridors of memory. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
My mouth worked, I know, and I struggled to speak to her, to get something out, because in that moment I could see recognition in her eyes.
This was not at all the way I wanted her to see me.
Not standing there in front of her, dumbly, unable to make myself understood.
But my tongue kept getting in the way, like a huge obstruction, and my mouth was dry.
Finally, something came out. Not what I had intended
(I had planned something soothing and encouraging, to take control of the situation and wipe out all the past and pain with a few words)
but all that came out of my cracked throat was: "Maaa..."
With all the things I had learned—in all the languages I had mastered —all I could say to her, standing on the porch staring at me, was, "Maaaa."
Like a dry-mouthed lamb at the udder. She wiped her forehead with the back of her arm and frowned at me, as if she could not see me clearly.
I stepped forward, past the gate to the walk, and then toward the steps.
She drew back. At first, I wasn't sure whether or not she really recognized me, but then she gasped: "Charlie!.. "
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