Today I met a woman at the hospital that speaks seven languages.
Her husband speaks one.
She told me her verbal gymnastics irritates her husband when she mumbles under her breath in multiple languages. When emotionally charged, she will often weave English, French, Yiddish, German, and Russian into a rich tapestry of colorful expressions.
When I think of her loving her husband, I envy how many different wants, needs, and hungers she can express to him in moments of passion, vulnerability, anger, joy, sorrow, and grief. I think about it, and a feeling of jealousy grows.
Then I realize he can only understand one language, and I wonder, “Does it feel lonely to be able to reveal so much of herself to him and yet remain unheard?”
It has been for me.