My grandfather on my mother’s side was a furrier in New York City. He was one of six sons who came from Russia. He and his brothers had dispersed around the globe: to Paris, Israel, Spain, Amsterdam, the United States, and Venezuela. When I was about nine or ten, my grandfather’s elder brother, Itzhak, came for a visit from Caracas. It had been twenty-five years since they had seen each other. We all met in my grandfather’s small brick home in Baldwin, New York.

I recall after dinner sitting in a corner of the small dining room. My grandfather and his brother sat at opposite ends of the table looking at each other, as if remembering when they were my age. Then, they started looking for a common language to speak. My grandfather knew six languages and Itzhak knew eight. I didn’t know what they were doing until my father said, “They’re trying on the histories of the world to see where they fit.” I was still puzzled and so, he said, “They’re trying to find the tongue of their hearts.”

They wanted to speak Yiddish, but Itzhak’s Yiddish was infiltrated with many Spanish words and my grandfather’s Yiddish was infiltrated with many English words. After several tries, they settled on German and they were off, reminiscing and laughing.

I sat wondering about the kaleidoscope of tongues that make up the world and where life leads us against our will. And how, if we listen long enough, we find a way home.