His mother had told him: Do not say wee. Do not say wee. She said there was a landscape to language and their accents could be a dangerous curiosity right now. He thought to himself that he was a boy of two countries with his hands in the dark of two empty pockets. He walked along the distance of the pier and he said the word was wee repeatedly until it meant nothing at all. It could have been a rope or a knot or a winch or perhaps even a thing of joy.
Wee, he screamed, running down from the pier and all the way along the empty beach. Wee.