I was taught how to introduce myself first. Even at five years old, things we couldn’t change defined us. Me llamo Catalina. Tengo cinco anos. It took many more years to know how to ask questions like ¿Qué hago ahora? or ¿puedes ayudarme?
After I met you, I no longer needed the answers. Happiness oozed en español from my skin. My favorite thing to do in the beginning was watch you shovel snow from our patio in the wintertime, shaking the brown curls from your eyes, while I drank pulpless orange juice and replayed all the te amo’s in my head. We had a place that was ours, and you kept it safe. “Terminado!” you’d shout, eyes twinkling, and put down the shovel. Things always sounded more beautiful coming out of your mouth.
But time goes by fast. And without practice, there are so many things I forget how to say. When I notice the sheets and blankets, a wall between us, I try to say I am sorry, but I can’t remember the way lo siento feels on my tongue. The words slip away, but you have a beautiful back. I reach for it while you are sleeping, warm skin on my cold fingertips. I don’t linger long, afraid the ice will rouse you. We sleep for a long time, until morning, when we eat oatmeal at the breakfast table and I make you look at me.
All the years that pass erase verbs, conjugations, simple phrases. Every week back in high school, we had a different batch of vocab words to memorize. They were cheat sheets to surviving in the doctor’s office, or at the beach, or in a restaurant. I wish I’d paid better attention, but I couldn’t predict the future. I didn’t see you coming.
↣
“Blissful Spill and The Dark Corner
that Spawned It” by Duane Hosein