I pick a different battle today. “Amma, he’s my boyfriend. Not my friend. You know that.”
But boyfriend is an impossible word for her. Her mouth cannot form its syllables in relation to me. There are boys, fiancés, and husbands. Not boyfriends. Yet she says it often enough in the context of other people’s wayward, rebellious, slut-whore Americanized daughters. Those girls have “boyfriends.” I have a “friend” who is also a “foreigner.”
*
These are the pleasures of love. They pour into every crevice of my life until they flood and overflow. I am on a train, thundering through the tunnel toward Oakland. I look around at this momentary gathering of strangers: the father with his baby daughter strapped to his chest. He shows her the pages of a soft book and she reaches out with her chubby infant hand to pat at the animals. There are tourists shivering in sweatshirts they have bought on Fisherman’s Wharf because “who the hell thought California in July would be cold!” In the corner seat, a homeless man covered up to his eyes in newspaper. They are all luminous; they are all beautiful. I could grab any one of them and love them. I could sweep the homeless man into my arms, I could dance with the new father and his babe; even the tourists I could kiss. I have to contain myself, hide my aching, flooded heart behind my smile. I am vibrating with the fact of love.
*
I take Daniel to the park and stand with him in front of the dahlias. I have not told him about this obsession. He considers them silently, taking in the riotous, tumbling profusion of colors and shapes, the mini explosions of petals like the wheeling birthing of galaxies. He says, “Jesus, they’re incredible. I’ve never seen flowers like this. They’re like aliens.” He points out the mighty scarlet ones, which look like spiky insects, the ones I have always held as my secret favorites, and I grip his hand harder. It feels like a secret sign. One more way our souls are made of the same substance.
We walk into the Conservatory of Flowers and our skins instantly drip sweat. I exclaim, “This is what home feels like! This is how hot and wet it is.” He says, “I’d love to see it.” I think about him there, in that place that was my home. It’s a dream I almost cannot let myself have. These two parts of my life, can they be seamed together? It would be miraculous.
We sit on the lush and spreading greens. He reaches for me and the picnic is forgotten; we are kissing and rolling about and lost entirely in each other. We hear shouting, pop up, and see a group of cyclists riding by, wildly cheering us on. I hide my face in his neck. Embarrassed but also elated.
*
He wants to hike and camp. Things that brown people decidedly do not do. “Sleep outside? In a tent? Why?” I ask when he first suggests it.
He’s astounded by the question. “I don’t know … I can’t believe you’ve never been camping.”
I narrow my eyes and say, “But why would anyone do that? We can sleep in a hotel and go out for food, no? We can hike and that kind of thing in the day.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Really? There are bugs, right? And weird people in the woods. I’ve watched all the movies, I know what happens out there.”
“You’ll love it. I promise.” A kiss by the corner of my eye.