My grandmother was the only person

I’ve ever heard use the phrase might should—

the uncommon marriage of two helping verbs

that, when joined, suggest both

hesitation and intent.

To be brave and unsure,

to hold two contradicting things

in the same mouth.

It was a weld of words that, to my child brain,

meant almost nothing,

like a middle name or a silent e.

I might should call her back.

We might should go to the grocery store.

You might should bring a jacket.

After she died, the phrase swirled

and sloshed through my brain—

pulled me into the undertow where her voice

now exists as a shell song.

My grandmother was a woman who

placed her words like steppingstones:

thoughtfully, deliberately.

All these years later, I understand why,

of the phrases she might have favored,

she chose the one that sounded

like the hush between tides—

one that left a bit of space

for pause, for grace,

for things still taking shape.