One way to learn about love, what it takes, is through how your brother and his wife feed their baby. She barely sucks the warm liquid flowing from the inside of her mother, but there is a pumping machine attached to her breasts. That way, the milk can be measured to its very ounces. She carefully fills the bottles with the pumped milk. Then, another machine is used to keep them warm, until the baby girl is ready to be fed. Meanwhile, the child is often sound asleep in her singing carriage, until she wakes up, forgets about the mother’s breasts and forgets her tongue. I used to have bottles, too, filled with the water splashing out from a large basin when he tried to drown my 3-month-old dog until she shat herself, for her didn’t stop barking in a dark, stormy evening. I didn’t forget about the dog and didn’t forget my tongue, for my tongue was once my mother’s, who was on her knees, begging her God for something good to end up in her womb, a daughter maybe — but her words only traveled halfway, and eventually, she had me instead. To understand what it takes to learn about love is to remember what we had lost escorting the tongue of a mother, besides her breasts and the dog howling in a dark, stormy evening.