The Other Way to Count

My daughter holds up three fingers,waiting for the only word she owns for it.I say three, then catch my mouthreaching for the other word too,thumb folding into my palm instead of my pinky,the way my mother countedat a table that doesn't exist anymore.

She unfolds my thumb like fixing a mistake.Three, she says again, patient,already certain there is just one wayto hold a number in your hand.

I let her teach me her method.I write both columns in my notebook that night,her numbers across from my mother's numbers,a ledger I keep meaning to balance.

This is the inheritance I can manage:not the whole language, just the counting,small enough to fit inside one small fist,enough to prove there was another wayto hold up three.