February 2026 "What is love?" A short story by Alexandra Covarrubias

“What is love, Papá?”

     Celio had just gotten home from Kingston Canyon Elementary school and was waiting for her father to come home from work to talk to him. She did it so often now that it became a routine, one that was a comfort, especially since her mom started picking up the afternoon loads at the hospital. Talking to her father was her secret place.

     “What is love, papá?” she asked, leaning over her father’s shoulder, who now sat with his coffee-filled mug on the old and cracked leather couch. He was under the sunlit window, taking in the warmth, and was happy to hear from his daughter, no matter her multitude of questions. He was there, and she was there. He was safe, even when the world didn’t feel like it or wasn’t. He loved her and only wanted the best for her, even though at times he knew she would disagree.

     “Why do you ask, Celio Lindo?” Her father asked, smiling, while being the most attentive he could be.

     “Because Roberto (Cielo’s friend in elementary school) said that love is when people se dan un besito.”

     Her father, having almost spat out a little of his coffee, was trying to hold in his laugh from the odd noise he had just made. He straightened his posture. “That’s a way someone can show when they love someone else, that is...when they are older y estan casados, like your mom and me. But that’s not what love itself is.”

     “What do you mean, Papá?” Celio asked, now more curious than she was initially.

     He paused. “Well...” he said with a gentle tone, “love is what rejoices in truth and also what comes from it. That is why love is what endures even through all trials. It is the hope that is seen through fear or through the valley of this world. Love is what bears the due burden for us all. Love is why the sun rises and greets you and me in the morning, or why that soft gust of wind kisses your face on a hot summer’s walk. In other words, love is the invisible turned into the visible, and we, while in this world, are given the shared task to make it visible, even if some people choose not to.”

     Celio sat next to her father, pondering his words, trying her absolute best to understand. She was only nine years old but was a keen child for her age. And even though she didn’t fully understand yet, she took in her father’s words as if they were always meant for her in all the ages to come. Her father was aware of her effort; he had been for a very long time. He remained patient and waited for anything else Celio had to say or ask, thinking about how Celio reminded him of himself, her smile—his; her joy—his; her sadness and pain, also his. He was still there and would remain there even in her stillness. He was there.