Our apartment in Stockholm had a blue kitchen floor, or so I am told.
I was three when they brought me back to America,
where both my parents were born.
I wanted my blue floor, I am told I screamed,
in the English-Swedish hybrid I spoke then, when the world
that was not my parents had a different language.
And then everything used the same set of words,
and the kitchen floor became so white I couldn’t remember the blue—
not the floor, nor its shade, nor even the words I once used to call them.
Image by: norhafydzah mahfodz