Love is stored in the way my Abuela calls me mija.
The word is so lovingly warn in , she doesn’t even say the m anymore. Too excited to say the rest of the word.
“Ija,” she’ll call me, and I can see the joy in her eyes. I’m not even a girl anymore but the way she says it feels like the way your favorite shirt does right out of the dryer.
We’ve done the same thing to my brother, the first half of his name barely there, worn away by years of use. One of my friends thought I was talking about two different brothers with how little it sounds like the original.
I’m the only one who still calls my cousin a specific nickname anymore. A remnant from when she was a baby. I asked her recently if she wanted me to stop and she said no - it was something special for us to share.
Names take on such transformations through the years. They can be such a personal thing , but so can all their iterations.
