I hear “Love”

The first time I hear the word “Love” is when she tells him I am going to be something. He is happy. He reaches over and touches her belly. I hear “Love.” 

I hear love again on my mother’s chest, when I lie there for the first time. I have my own heartbeat now, sure. But I don’t know this yet. I only know my mother. I only know her heart. I only hear “Love.”

It happens again when I grow older—but really I grow younger by the minute because I keep hearing “Love.” My older sister, the youngest person I knew then, uses her nose to kiss mine. I smile. She chuckles. I hear “Love.”

I take my first steps. I hear “Love.”

I say my first word. I hear “Love.”

I fall for the first time. I hear “Love.”

I have my first nightmare and I scream and it’s ugly. But then I am carried to the night breeze balcony—which will become the place I hear “Love” the most—in arms softer than my bedsheets. And in the wind, I hear “Love.”

I forget how to sleep. The rocking chair tries her hardest. She sings me her favorite lullaby. This is my first one. This is also the first time I hear music. I remember how to dream. I hear “Love.”

I wake up to half the street in my kitchen, drinking my grandmother’s coffee—I am not allowed to drink this yet, but when I do for the first time, I realize I can also taste “Love.” They try to trade loaves of bread and eggs and sugar. She refuses to accept and gives her grounds as a gift. I hear “Love.”

I go back to that balcony during a city-wide blackout. There is no air-conditioning or fans. It is summertime in Cuba. My father is smoking a cigarette—I am not allowed to do this yet, but when I do for the first time, I realize “Love” can also kill you. The sky is clear and black. I sit on his lap. We sweat together in silence. I hear “Love.”

The next-door neighbor—who I will call Tía Vivi after she teaches me about all the times you can hear “Love” in the Bible—teaches me how to draw a house. I draw my first triangle on top of a square. I hear “Love.”

And then I visit a house twenty minutes on the outskirts of my town, my father’s town, his father’s home. There is a skeleton left by a man on a creaking bed. His shadow is dull. My father holds his hand—and I wonder if my father can hear “Love” in this moment. He kisses his forehead. I hear “Love.”

In my own home, the living room is full of chairs. The chairs are full of people. Come down the stairs waiting for the party, for the music, waiting to hear “Love.” There is a skeleton left by a woman on a creaking bed. Her shadow is dull. My grandmother holds her hand—and I wonder if my grandmother can hear “Love” in this moment. She kisses her forehead. I hear “Love.”

Our parents get us a puppy. Her fur is black and shiny, and she looks like us. And we feed her everything we eat in secret. My grandfather names her Queen and gives her a collar with a jingle-bell on it. I hear her running towards me before she begins to run. I hear “Love.”

I go back to that balcony during an afternoon when I decide I had chased down every single lizard in my backyard. I chase something different. The boy across the street is a mean little boy, but he is my age. I kiss someone’s lips for the first time. I hear “Love.”

I hear “Love” in his lips thirty-seven more times before I let myself hear “Love” more clearly. I can’t tell you how it happened. But even now, every time I play hide-and-seek, I still hear “Love.”

I go back to that balcony during the saddest sunrise of my life. I go back to forget what it sounds like. To forget what it means. To forget even the words that adorn it. To forget all the times I heard “Love” before. 

I un-hear “Love.” 

And years pass without “Love.” But I look for it everywhere. In a foreign language. In Microwaves and pool vacuums. In books, I don’t understand. In people who don’t understand me. I try to read the Bible again, but “Love” is nowhere there. I try a Caramel Macchiato from Starbucks for the first time, looking for that love stuck with the sticky sugar at the bottom of my grandma's coffee, but I only get a stomach ache. I keep looking. I look under my pillow. I look in Disney Channel shows. I look under my fingernails. I look across the classroom. I look in our tiny two-bedroom apartment. I look in air-fresheners. I look in the soles of my shoes. I look in the souls of the others. I look in the soul of myself. I look in the mirror, and I jump. 

There is a skeleton left by a girl on a creaking bed. Her shadow is dull. No one holds her hand—and I wonder if she can still hear “Love” in this moment. No one kisses her forehead. She forgets to listen to “Love.” She forgets to listen for “Love.” She forgets “Love.”

And years pass without “Love.” But “Love” looks for her everywhere. And when she finds me, I hear love again for the first time.