“Wednesday!” my Abuela would say when she touched something hot- but not “Wednesday-” she would say “​Mieeerrrcoles ​ !” like a teapot raising its voice and being taken off the stove. I never knew the other Mier-word she wanted to say until later.

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When my mom was little she learned to spell by imagining my Abuela saying English words with her accent like ​ he-li-cop-ter or ​christ-mas the very same way she gossiped on the phone yelling ​“Im-a-gí-na-te tú!” But when my abuela would show up to my uncle’s school to read books to the kindergarteners, the other moms would plug their ears, as if the stories she read were somehow tainted by her otherness, and the children surely watched and learned by that example

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And when I was ​líttle as my Abuela would say I also tried to speak the way my mother did, saying ​ “​la loo mana tamango!” and asking “Did I say something in Spanish?” Forgetting that my name is supposed to bloom as it’s said: ​Li-li-a-na, como la flor.

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There were some words that were only in Spanish like ​crema for calamine lotion and platanos for deep golden plantains and all my mother’s lullabies that taught me to find home in her voice no matter what she saidFor me, Spanish always sounds like music.

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My Abuela once asked me if my brother and I always understood her English- I wanted to tell her: Abuela, en tu voz vive la ternura y la luchaen tu acento viven las montañas de Pereira, las playas de Santa Marta y las calles de Barranquilla I wanted to say this, but I didn’t know how. When I came back from Colombia I spoke con un acento costeño que no podría creer and when I finally spoke to my Abuela in Spanish and used the formal ​“ústed,” gritó “Digame tú! En Barranquilla, Tutean!”- which means that everyone is family and we kiss when we say hello. I now know the lullabies my mother sang to me, they go: Lloran, lloran los guaduales porque, también tienen alma, y los he visto llorando, cuando en las tardes los estremece el viento en los valles. And sometimes, ​como los guaduales, like the willows, I want to weep. I want to weep for every time I was too scared to talk to my Abuela in Spanish. I want to weep for the mothers at the Salvadoran man’s funeral who prayed,​“Sánta María, Madre de Diós.” I want to weep because unlike these women I don’t know how to pray the way my Abuela would want. When my mom is surprised and impressed by my accent I want to tell her: Yo aprendí en mi sueño I learned in my sleep. I want to say, ​Quiero decir: Abuela, I understand everything you say