I'm as romantic as they get. For Valentine’s Day I braided a piece of my hair, cut it off, tied it with a silk ribbon and sent it to my boyfriend to show him my “favor”, like a maiden to her knight in days of old. I dragged my love under a billion stars and pulled him into a dance, even though there was no music playing. When I feel love, I feel it deeply. There were other times I felt love. They all made me cry.

I was eight years old. I had a beloved pet rabbit. Her name was Cuteness. She had cream-colored fur as soft as feathers, and she was pregnant. Each day I would race home from school to check on Cuteness. I gave her special food and held her for an hour each evening, petting her and chatting with childlike innocence, promising to play with all of her babies. I made plans, big plans for Cuteness’ future children.

One night she was huge, about to pop, and I was holding her. I kissed her little head. I stood up, and my hands slipped. I dropped her. She seemed startled, but then okay. The next morning, I went to pet her. She wasn’t moving. I picked her up. She was dead, and all her babies were still unborn. I sat in a little ball, hugged myself, and cried until I hit exhaustion.

I was nine and had a best friend. She and I were as close as sisters. We were always at each other’s houses, sharing our dreams and our fears. Then one day I said goodbye to her. Her mother called me at home. She had been kidnapped.

Let’s fast-forward in time, quickly. I was a teenager. Something happened to me. I was no longer a “geek” or a “square.” Boys hit on me everyday. I had this male friend. He was the nicest guy. We hung out a lot after school. He shared his dreams with me. One day he told me that I was the only beautiful girl that would ever talk to him. Everyone else treated him like a nerd. With tears in my eyes, I told him that he was a very good person, and that I was honored to be his friend.

Then one day I saw him from a distance. I was in a hurry and rushed past him without saying goodbye. I meant nothing by it. That night, he was killed.

Hmm. There are so many ways to love. I was in college. I was rushing around downtown trying to catch a bus. I had just gotten another eviction notice that morning. I was feeling sorry for myself. Then I looked down. A little girl with a dirt-smudged face was looking up at me. Her tiny pink jacket was filthy. Her liquid eyes made my heart melt and fall to my feet in thousands of itty-bitty droplets. She was hungry. I had no money. I reached into my backpack and gave her my protein bar. She took it shyly and then walked towards a homeless couple with downtrodden faces.

The next day, I searched the area with a bag of stuff I had put together, a loaf of bread, some peanut butter, a plastic knife, an apple or two, and a teddy bear. My heart sank when I realized a week later that they were gone for good. I sent them my love.

One day I was having an off day. I literally fell off the bus. I landed in a most humiliating pile of my own stuff, scattered all over the sidewalk. My long hair was in my face. I felt my shoulders tremble, and then before I knew it, I was crying. People passed me. Only one lady stopped to help me. She bent down and spoke to me with soft words. I wiped my wet face with the back of my hand and looked at her. We got to really talking, and she helped me gather all of my belongings. She was an immigrant. I asked her for her story. Her father wanted to rescue his family from the heavy oppression that they were suffering. They ran and hid out in a neighboring country for two years. Finally, on the way to America, he got killed. This woman told me her story with a vague sadness in her eyes. It had happened decades before, but she said that she could feel her father smiling upon her and her family, because they made it here, and each one of them made their dreams come true. She was a doctor, she told me cheerfully. “Imagine that. I love America.”

I walked by a flag later that day and touched my heart. I was in the freest nation on earth. I would not be killed for any of my beliefs. Immigrants who become Americans should be allowed to run for president. I have seen so much love and gratitude in their eyes, and so much disdain in the expressions of certain people born here. I love this beautiful country, and remembering how many people died bringing me this freedom chokes me up.

We all love our families, or at least someone in them, right? My sister was younger than me. Whenever something broke my tender heart, she was there to comfort me. She would put her arms around me and give me comforting words. She wrote me loving letters of encouragement because I didn’t believe in myself. She looked up to me and always told me how proud of me she was. “L- you are the talented one in the family. Go pick up your guitar and make things happen!” Then she left too. I woke up regularly for two years in the middle of the night in shock and grief at her loss.

I walked onto the stage for the first time. I was scared; I was awed. As I sat before the electric piano, my heart felt like it was bursting with gratitude. I closed my eyes briefly and thanked God with all of my heart for being called to music.

When I camp, I go for walks and lose myself in the world that is filled with majesty. The Rocky Mountains are breathtaking. The cool crispness that rises from a deep blue lake as I walk barefoot along the sandy shores brings with it the smell of deeply refreshing air. I’m really healthy. I hike up a mountain path and feel love and appreciation for being in such good shape. Looking up at the stars at night through a patch of trees makes me realize how small I am but how important, for I am God’s child and I feel his love. It brings tears to my eyes.

I smile and look forward to sitting by the campfire telling ghost stories, true ones of course. I look at my friends and family over the hotdog scented smoke and my eyes moisten because I feel love in my heart; I feel thankful. My mouth waters as I dream of gooey chocolate dripping over puffy marshmallows and honey-flavored graham crackers. I’m licking my lips now. I love good food. The scents, the textures, the taste all brings back certain memories, like how the smell of freshly baked bread might bring back the warm days spent in your grandmother’s kitchen. Or the smell of lemonade might remind someone of splashing around in a swimming pool during summer vacation. Has food ever made me cry? Believe it or not, yes. I’ve gone long stretches on very little of it. When I got my next decent meal, my eyes lighted with the tears of feeling blessed.

I was once engaged. I remember squeezing his hands in mine while discussing our wedding plans. He told everyone we knew how crazy he was about me. One day I went to a mutual friend’s house. He turned the corner holding another woman’s hand. I considered ending it all for the sake of this love, one of many types I have experienced or have yet to experience. Have you ever loved and hated someone at the same time? Does it feel different than just hating him? Well, due to my deeply spiritual nature, I had to overcome my hate, and due to my human nature, I had to overcome my love for him. I did both.

Overall, love has brought me a lake full of tears. Was it worth it? Damn right it was.