Papa went out and put on a show.

They smiled, they weeped, they clapped

at him up on the stage

in the bright, bright lights.

Papa drove home and took off his coat.

We squealed, we jumped, we hugged

when he came inside

from the cold, snowy night.

Papa changed to slippers and went to the stove.

He measured, he poured, he hummed

as he got out the stuff

to end his evening right.

Oil-kernels-heat, and the endless wait.

We little ones hoping

for a crunchy bedtime bite.

Papa lifted the lid and got lost in the steam.

He salted, he stirred, he filled

the giant metal bowl

with the pile of fluffy white.

Papa took his bowl and moved toward the couch.

He waited, he watched, he winked

as three sets of hands

reached up (but couldn’t quite.)

Alright, a handful each and then quick up to bed.

This corn belongs to Papa,

a reward for the crowd’s delight.

My dad didn’t die. He was supposed to. I flew across half of our madly spinning space-rock to be with him, and he didn’t die. I packed up my notebooks of equations and cancelled my meetings in the dim offices of old men healthier than him to be by his side. But he didn’t follow through. Not the first time he hasn’t followed through. Not the first time I’ve dropped everything for him. It’s always his heart that doesn’t work right; that’s what puts him into the hospital, and what makes him stay out of my life.

My dad didn’t die. And so I have no idea what it is to grieve a father’s death. I have grieved his addiction, I have grieved his absence, but I have not grieved his passing. I got off the plane, jetlagged and a thousand euros poorer from the last-minute trip. I felt numb, trying to explain to the man at immigration why I was in Detroit. I didn’t know yet that my dad’s heart had started to work again while I was in the air. I didn’t know the music hadn’t died.

See, that’s the thing about him. My dad. His heart doesn’t work, but my god does that man make love to symphonies, embrace the curves of his violin, whisper sweet nothings to the classical masters. For every ounce of love that he withholds from me, he puts a magnum of wild, rushing adoration into that instrument. It overflows, it engulfs me, it overwhelms me, ever since my earliest days. With that adoration he gave our family life, provided us shelter, brought adventures to us. With that adoration he gave me the gift of passion and rhythm and the endless quest for the contradiction that is perfection in art. See, his heart doesn’t work, but his music – oh, his music – it works like the sun shines and the waves crash. The world can’t go on without it.

Up high in the clouds, disconnected from the truth, I grieved. I thought my dad’s heart stopped working once and for all; I thought he had died. And I didn’t grieve it. But in that same moment, when I thought the music had died, see, I grieved its passing.

So I do not know what it is to grieve a father’s death. I landed, and I learned that his heart – which the doctors say is bigger than normal, to all of our shock – had started to work again. I did not need to grieve that. But for one day, one transoceanic flight, I thought the music had died. And I know what it is to feel that loss.

Todo va a estar bien. Everything is going to be okay.

Whispered to me by my first love as he held me in his innocent and safe arms when nothing else in my life was either of those things. Before that: whispered to him by his mother when he was a tiny child, crossing a border and praying for the best. Words spoken by countless other voices at countless other moments. The most basic comfort, the simplest wisdom. I whisper it to myself now. Todo va a estar bien. Everything is going to be okay.

everyone does it:

breaks hearts, and has theirs broken.

yet we cry alone.

(words to reach minimum)

Loving is a rational decision. The fairy tale stories of happily-ever-after and the wild Hollywood passions are ludicrous representations of what love actually is. Assuming you're looking for long-lasting, committed romantic love, that is. Because love takes many other forms: an exciting summer fling that keeps a sweet spot in your heart years later; a deeply committed friendship with someone you care so much about that you cry for their pain; the bond between siblings, cousins, or parents and children which makes us argue and shout and fight about nonsense but also makes us give kidneys and bone marrow without a moment's hesitation. Love comes in so many forms that the very question how should you love someone? rings with pointlessness. (Sorry.) But if what you mean is how should you love someone romantically and how do I know when to do it? Then that is when I offer my method: Be rational. Not impulsive.

Don't try to love someone who isn't available to love you. Whatever that means in your situation.

Don't try to love someone who doesn't want to be loved by you (or by anyone). You'll know that when you see it.

Don't try to love someone who takes advantage of your softness. They can challenge it, but they can not destroy it.

Don't try to love someone who doesn't respect others. Especially someone who says bad things about others to you.

Don't try to love someone who doesn't keep in touch. It's 20fucking19. There's no excuse for leaving someone hanging.

And... don't try to love someone who just doesn't feel the same. It doesn't mean they don't care. Loving is a big choice; allow people the freedom to make it as they see fit, and if someone is not ready for that choice you have to accept it and wish them well.

Do love someone who you find yourself at-ease with. Someone who, although they may be thrilling at the beginning, feel like home.

Do love someone who listens to you, meets you where you are, and respects your needs.

Do love someone who respects and loves themselves. This looks like honesty and health.

Do love the person who doesn't make you wonder if you've found the right person, and who doesn't make you wonder if you're doing it right.

Until then, trial and error it, baby! Sometimes it hurts, but learning is the only way forward!

And remember, love is an ongoing decision. You don't make it once. You choose to show up and love every single day. And make sure you're loving yourself that way, too.

À chaque fois que

Ich lese den Titel der ‘Challenge’

todas las palabras que se quedan en mi mente

se sortent en même temps,

à travers mes doigts qui restent

auf dem Laptop.

Que està mierda.

Morgens spreche ich Deutsch, aber

Dès que je me trouve dans les rues, ou au marché

No puedo resistir los pensamientos que mi aparecen

In all the languages I’ve allowed into my

Heart.

Herz.

Cœur.

Corazòn.

Cuore.

(Sì. Ho dimenticato. C’è anche il mio cuore che vuole stare sentito.)

Je bois un verre de vin blanc,

(Oppure due, trè, più...)

Eine einfache Bewegung.

Mais je n’arrive pas

A sacar de mi mente la idea

Que es el español,

And English,

That bring me home.

Family. País.

Mais j’ai fait de l’amour

en français.

Ho trovato i migliori amici del mondo

in italiano.

Ich möchte mein Leben

auf Deutsch

schaffen.

(Pinche alemàn no está de acuerdo

des règles de la poésie,

in questo caso.

Was kann ich tun?)

Language! For others, a hobby.

For me, everyday.

Two as a child.

Five as an adult.

Language, everywhere.

Every day, every night.

But:

My friends, my lovers, are the same.

We just throw words at each other,

and hope for the best.

______________________

TCK / Third Culture Kid Language

[FR] Each time that

[DE] I read the title of the Challenge,

[ES] All the words that stay in my mind

[FR] Leave it at once,

[FR] Through my fingers that rest

[DE] On this laptop.

[ES[ This is shit.

[DE] In the mornings I speak German, but

[FR] As soon as I find myself in the streets, or at the market

[ES] I can’t resist all the thoughts that come to me

[EN] In all the languages I’ve allowed into my

[EN] Heart.

[DE] Heart.

[FR] Heart.

[ES] Heart.

[IT] Heart.

[IT] Yeah. I forgot. There’s also my heart that wants to be heard.

[FR] I drink a glass of white wine,

[IT] (Or two, or three, or more...)

[DE] A simple action.

[FR] But I don’t manage

[ES] To get out of my mind the idea

[ES] That it’s Spanish,

[EN] And English,

[EN] That bring me home.

[EN] Family. [ES] Country.

[FR] But I’ve made love

[FR] In French.

[IT] I’ve found the best friendship in the world

[IT] In Italian.

[DE] I want to... my life...

[DE] In German...

[DE] Create.

[ES] (Fucking German doesn’t go along with

[FR] the rules of poetry

[IT] in this case.

[DE] What can I do?)

Language! For others, a hobby.

For me, everyday.

Two as a child.

Five as an adult.

Language, everywhere.

Every day, every night.

But:

My friends, my lovers, are the same.

We just throw words at each other,

and hope for the best.

Where does it go when it takes a day off, my inspiration? And my motivation? The days when I wake up with my mind trapped between four blank walls with no door. The days when it's all I can do to open the curtains and look at the sky. The days when sitting at my desk is like being chained in a cell rather than paddling a raft of creativity. Where the hell is my drive, my interest, when those days come?

It disappears more effectively than anything else. Hell, money sticks around better than my will to be productive, which vanishes overnight like a whisp of smoke from a dying fire. I wake up and try to prod at the embers but it's just ash. We have a mutual disinterest, me and my creativity, on those days.

But really, where is it? That's what I don't understand. Because it can't be far. It always comes back. When I'm least expecting it, a couple of days later, it'll hit me in the back like a freight train barrelling through on its way to bigger and better things. I'll bask in the warm glow of my desk lamp, revel in the light reflecting off my room's four blank walls, empty with possibility. I'll sit at my desk, struggling to express everything it brings to be at once.

I always know it'll be back, eventually, my inspiration. And I always know it'll leave again. But what I don't understand is... where and why does it go in the meantime?!