By Olga Montenegro

They told me once that loving in Spanish is different from loving someone in English.
 I refuted this because deep down, the love I felt had no words: 
it was just there, savage like the fires I grew up loving when Pacaya erupted and soothing like the sweetness of Atitlán in those hot summer days.

 Pero hay verdades que se encuentran.
 I discovered that when I tried to speak about love, the technicalities of English tangled in my brain and came out too corny and too sentimental.
I buried those feelings of love and learned to tangle them with reason. 

 I learn to bury such things quite deep. 

I buried it past my blood and beyond my marrow. 
I buried it deep in that part of my brain they say controls impulse.

 Nadie me explicó que todo cambia cuando arden. 
The heat became too much one day, when we buried him for seven days and seven nights. We buried him repeatedly even though his body was long gone. Too cold and dead to come back.

I keep burying him in my head, over and over again
past that impulse control. 

We would speak Spanish in whispers: he knew what it meant to tell him como te quiero and he understood what it meant to say aqui somos diferentes. Sheltered in rounder vowels; sweeter. 

When I saw him last, we sang our song at the top of our lungs -
 Dragged the vowels like the strawberry jam his Jewish mother would make from scratch and feed us before Sabbath. 

Crushed strawberries, boiled with sugar that would soften the sharpness of our feelings -
strawberry hearts mangled on fresh bread we both loved to eat that would rise at his house every Friday morning, pulsing with warmth. 

Our bodies were alive with hot electric currents of water and thunder: my tears mixing with his thunderous mood swings that would ripple in whichever room we were.
We created storms no one else could see.

He would have turned forty in January. 

I keep wondering if he feels cold.
If me telling him te quiero tanto every night keeps him somewhat warm.
ASCII shrug symbol

Olga Montenegro is a native of Boston, MA who grew up in Mexico City. The daughter of two Guatemalan parents, Olga is currently a graduate student at Bridgewater State University and working on her thesis, which incorporates both English and Spanish to amplify the impact of language in memoir. Her work can be found in No Contact Magazine, Red Ogre Review, bravevoicesmag, MoonColaZine, and Jupiter Review. You can find her on Twitter @ActuallyOlga.


Editor’s Note

For those who don’t speak Spanish and/or are unfamiliar with some of the references in this poem, below are some annotations that provide additional context.

Translations:

Pero hay verdades que se encuentran. There are truths meant to be found.

Nadie me explicó que todo cambia cuando arden. No one explained to me that everything changes when things burn.

como te quiero. I really love you.

aqui somos diferentes. we’re different here.

te quiero tanto. I love you so much.

Other Annotations:

“Pacaya.” An active volcano in Guatemala.

“Atitlán.” A very large, very deep lake in Guatemala that sits in a large volcanic crater.

“for seven days and seven nights.” This refers to the act of sitting shiva, a Jewish mourning practice where visitors see the family and provide comfort; the practice traditionally lasts seven days.


Why we chose this piece: Olga’s use of Spanish and English is really lovely, and her voice resonated with us a lot. The idea of sitting shiva as a time to mentally bury and re-bury a loved one is so powerful. And saying “I love you so” over and over as a way to warm them up? Just beautiful. We truly admire how she explores grief in this poem.

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