New age cartography, we call it. We draw maps between words, an excuse for the few that we exchange amongst ourselves.

“How about ‘choice words’, maman? Down, six letters, starts with ‘e’.” I look over my shoulder and she’s lingering by the stove, shoulders hunched together the way they do when she’s deep in thought.

I return the paper to the table and hunch over it, the top of the pen held tight between my teeth, flustered until I feel my mother hovering over me. She lingers close behind, breathes deep as she thinks, makes the deep “hmm” sound I’ve heard every time we’ve done these. She’s stumped, or close to it.

“Eenies,” she finally says, and I can’t help but shake my head, “e-e-n-i-e-s.”

She always figures things out before I do, uncharacteristically wise when it comes to solving crosswords. The only area of her life where she seems to be neatly put together, all of her seams not fraying when she’s got a puzzle in front of her.

Briefly, she presses her lips to my crown, one of her hands parting gently at my shoulder. “I love you, Etienne, but we’ve been doing these for fifteen years and you still aren’t very good.” I can’t help but laugh, used to her teasing, comfortable in the way that we’ve learned to talk to each other; always at the surface, little affection, almost never anything deeper.

When she speaks again, I feel disappointment well in my chest, resist the urge to interject, “but it’s only nine thirty.”

“I think solving that puzzle means it’s time for another glass of wine.”