In America, a stranger will say “love you” and then hang up. The first time, it was a woman at the pharmacy. She finished a call, said “okay, love you, bye,” and put her phone away. She did not say it to me. But I heard it. A vow spoken aloud in my presence is a vow I have witnessed. And a witness carries a duty. I asked her who she had pledged her life to. “Oh, that was just my mom.” Just her mom. She swears the deepest oath a human can swear, between buying vitamins, and calls it nothing. I went home shaken. Then it began happening to me. The man who fixed my sink said it leaving. The baker said it closing up. A boy bagging groceries said “love you guys” to the entire line. The entire line. I now carry their love. All of it. I keep a list. Everyone who has said those words within my hearing is someone I am bound to. The list no longer fits on one page. I am, by my own count, the most loved man in America. None of them know it. I do not say it back carelessly. When I say it, I mean it across my whole remaining life, in this world and the next. So I have said it only once. To a cashier. She said “love you, bye.” I set down my bag, looked at her with my whole heart, and said, “And I, you. Always.” She laughed. “Aww, you’re sweet.” She has already forgotten my face. That is alright. A vow does not require the other person to remember it. So now I stand near the doors. I wait. And every single day, without fail, a stranger hands me their heart on the way out, means it for exactly one second, and that one second is mine to keep forever. I have never been this rich. I came to this country with a sword and an empty heart. I am leaving with neither the sword, nor any room left. Was it alright, America, that I kept all of it?