I didn’t know I was waiting to hear it.

It’s not my mother’s warbled pronunciation. It’s not my dad’s low voice admonishing me in two syllables. It’s not my best friends shouting it to pull me away from a flirtation just as the lights come up at last call.

Until now, I liked it best when my grandmother would stretch out its e, and nestle it between mi hermosa and mi preciosa.

You say it when I make you laugh;

You say it when I’m drunk and sobbing in your bed, my mascara ruining my white shirt;

You’ve said it when you were mad, uttering it between clenched teeth and cracked knuckles.

No matter how,

when you say it,

I smell rain.

When you say it, something long neglected blooms between my ribs.

When you say it, it’s like no one has ever said it. I hear it for the first time and instead of resenting my American name,

for the first time

it feels like it’s mine.