Love Defined
Kenna Khan
Love is introduced to me by the strum of the strings on my tio’s guitar, when I’m still too young to comprehend the soothing sounds that fall upon my ears. The tune is accompanied by tender words sung in my uncle’s raspy voice — words that speak of longing, words of warmth, words that escape me because they are not meant to be recalled. It is not the song that is meant to be remembered. Rather, it is the way my mother’s head sways to the melody while I peer up at her from my seat in her lap, the way I can see the smile-lines on my tia’s face as she stands by the stove stirring a simmering pot, the way my tio’s voice seems to be coated in honey as he sings in rich words that my four year old self cannot fully understand. My earliest memory of music takes place in the glow of the tiny kitchen of my cousins’ home— this is where I have my first encounter with love.
My first song is “Burning Up” by the Jonas Brothers. It’s hardly my earliest brush with music, but it’s a first regardless. It’s the first song to become mine— mine in the way my eight year old self belts out barely memorized lyrics in the shower and hums the catchy tune for weeks, even though it’s driven everybody in the house crazy. My infatuation with this particular song ends once I move on to the next; soon enough I’ve forgotten all about it as I learn to take the care to listen.
I gradually realize that if you keep your ears open, love can be found everywhere. Love sits next to me on the long bus rides home from school, where the radio blares Bruno Mars and Ne-Yo, distracting me from the bad day I’ve had. Love tucks me into bed at night, the sounds of slow R&B muffling out the shouts of my parents arguing in the next room over. Love sticks its hands out of the open sunroof of my sister’s car, feeling the rush of air against its skin as we zoom across the highway, the noise of the roadway drowned out by the blaring sounds of Reggaeton booming from the car speakers.