Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich
In my family, our love language is a subtle dialect.
We're Colombian.
We fight, we yell, we scream.
It blows over quickly, like a summer storm.
What I'm here to talk about is love.
Love is nodding, listening enraptured,
as my scientist in training sibling describes their research.
Despite not understanding a single word they say,
They look so happy and fulfilled talking that,
I don't ever want them to stop.
Love is the near constant phrase on my family's lips,
"Can I make you something to eat?"
It's my father's Colombian dishes,
lovingly cooked by my American mother,
the way my Abuelita used to cook.
...Sort of like the way Abuelita used to cook.
Okay, love is the Americanized versions of recipes my Abuelita used to cook.
Sancocho, buñuelos, arepas,
Love is endless cups of tea.
Love is endless cups of tea with something additional.
Love is endless cups of tea with whiskey.
Love is remembering I'm not drinking these days and forgoing the whiskey.
I had a partner once who was fantastic when it came to grand declaration and action,
Dates were never just dates, they were events, special occasions.
They were shiny leather shoes and dresses that fell just so.
He took great pride in leaving me breathless,
In leaving me speechless.
He quite liked me speechless, actually, come to think of it.
I think he wanted an audience to his greatness, not a partner,
an object to love him unconditionally.
Our last fight was over a sandwich.
I prefer strawberry jam and crunchy peanut butter.
We'd lived together,
slept together,
traveled together,
made a life together and yet
while grocery shopping,
the items I wanted never seemed to make it home.
Love is strawberry jam and crunchy peanut butter.
Love is remembering that favorite little inconsequential thing
that somehow makes your loved ones life so much happier and brighter.
Love is laying next to my best friend,
as she's playing Stardew Valley
and I play Pokemon go on my phone.
Love is quiet comfortable silence.
Love the way my cat always seems to know
when I'm on the verge of a depressive episode,
crawling into my lap
as if her body warmth can fight the chemical imbalances in my head.
Love is that it works sometimes.
Love is the small things.
In Spanish,
in my family,
sobradito is the word we use to describe
that bite of a delicious meal that you save for a loved one.
It's somehow more than just leftovers.
It's the conscious effort you put in things.
Love is tasting something so good that you can't bare not to share it
with the person you care for most in the world.