Foreigners are sitting. Even though it’s my house, only the use of a foreign language is allowed. A person who’s lost her language, I circle the living room. A bright steam rises from the kettle and dissipates. A soft pitch. Languages are afloat, like feathers. Soft wings. I stretch my hand out to catch a scurrying sound. If I lose my meaning, can I slowly rise? Like this? What is meaning if it won’t reach each other? White snow falls, falls outside my window. I hear words I don’t understand, and as someone who can’t speak, I’m now the quietest person in my house. Foreigners brush each other’s shoulders, like brushing off feathers. If I lose the deeper meaning, would I be able to fold my wings, leave my house, and get to a new house? Outside the window, it’s snowing, snowing. As the only person in my house who’s lost a house, I drink a cup of tea, like the foreigners do. A soft steam. A soft missing.