I remember spinning and being unable to keep track of time,
because there seemed to be an inconsistence with your numbers--

      numbers that I never understood.
When I asked for the time,
you warned me that time was not something to be counted.
I didn’t understand what you meant abuelito.

I can count the months that have passed since I last saw you.
I can count the seconds it took for me to react.
But I couldn’t count how long it took for my father
to put himself back together again.
Counting instead the number of reasons why he wouldn’t be able to.

When languages impede people from talking
it seems numbers are there to comfort us,
as if saying this is the only similarity we share.
We have to keep track of all and nothing.

So I kept track of all of the candles on your cake.
And I kept track of the times you laughed in a day.
And I keep track of the Spanish words I don’t quite understand.
And I kept track of the times I would’ve turned to you and asked.
I feel guilty now,
of not recognizing the language I was born into.
Because I do not know what my first words were,
but I know they were in Spanish.
Just like I know your favorite season was Winter.

Was. Is. Will forever be.
Time is just a number abuelito.