Not everything inherited is meant to be used

I learned early that words were a kind of currency.

My Irish granddad used them the way other men used tools—freely, often, and with a certain disregard for waste. When I talked too much he’d grin and say, “Wyatt me boy, the Irish love words because they’re cheap. Even the very biggest ones. Use enough of ’em and folks might forget how poor you are.”

Then he’d wink and add, “They’re less likely to forget how drunk you are.”

He smelled like Half & Half tobacco, sawdust, and whatever he’d been drinking before noon. His voice carried a lilt that felt borrowed from a land farther away than the hills of southern Ohio. Sometimes it softened a room. Sometimes it sharpened it instead. I didn’t know then that melancholy could be inherited, or that a joke could cut on purpose.

I only knew he found comfort in a bottle, and that words could make a room warmer—or smaller—depending on how they were used.

I have covered a lot of miles since that time and come to understand that good men can pass on broken tools. Sometimes they do it with tenderness. Sometimes in ignorance. Sometimes with both.

It turns out words aren’t free. They have a cost. They cost time, trust, and silence. They cost the chance to listen. They cost the moment when restraint would have been the braver act.

I don’t blame him. I learned from him. And, I’m still learning when not to speak.