The words seemed, to me, so lyrical and beautiful when you spoke - a melodic language I had never learned, and probably never would. You would always excuse yourself when you answered your parents in that tongue, holding the phone away from your lips so that I wouldn't have to hear. You probably would have never guessed that I would listen even more intently when you did so, straining to hear the syllables roll off your tongue. For all I knew, you could have been agreeing to take the garbage out, and I would have thought it mesmerizing. I could have listened to you forever.
Once, you played for me some music in that tongue, and I thought I would dissolve under the weighty sadness of it. You told me the story behind the lyrics - a tale of separation and heartache, of blood in the streets.
I couldn't help but think that you had inherited their sorrow, that you carried it with you and that was why your shoulders always slouched so when you walked. Exquisite agony.