‘What is love?’ Is the age old question. And honestly, there is no right answer, maybe it’s a question that doesn’t expect one but my answer would be simple. That love is language. Hundreds of languages, all stemming from somewhere, some similar, others vastly different, yet each on special and specific to someone. From one heart to another, one language to the next, it’s easy to have love be lost in translation. How do you get it to reach? Will it? Love like language must be learned. In the beginning, there will be difficulty getting the point across, the other party may not even understand. But with time and patience and diligence, words come easier, stringing to sentences, and they will know. But it’s not just about ‘I love you’, that can sit too heavily on your tongue, like taffy, sticking to your gums and teeth. Love can be said and shown in so many different ways, not so easily constrained to its three letter reputation. 

My dad never told me that he loved me, never saying ‘I love you’, but that isn’t to say that he didn’t. Growing up, I had always assumed that love was something to be said, to be written, to be told, and yet, being so caught up in wanting that version of love, I had lost track in all the ways I had been loved. What is expected isn’t always what comes most easily. So there were no ‘I love you’s or ‘I’m sorry’s in my household, no ‘good job’s or ‘well done’s, there was only that rough, unpolished way of love which to no one’s surprise, is all my dad knew. He was never told those things, how was he to know that it wasn’t what I expected? ‘Have you eaten yet?’ ‘Are you hungry?’ ‘Put on a jacket, it’s cold out’. My grandmother passed that onto him, I’m sure he didn’t understand at the time either, just like me, how to translate that into love. But it was always there, unconditioned and always forgiving, the type of answers to questions that never really matter. So I ask myself, how could oranges possibly matter? Yet born of scarred hands that smell of cigarette and metal, I’ve learned to love even that. There is love in understanding an orange. My dad never told me he loved me, but he always peeled my oranges.

Love, you come to learn, is quiet. For all its grandeur and tales of sacrifice, its the love that hardly pass as stories, that often mean the most. I remember my dad, sitting by the table on Lunar New Years, and wordlessly peeling an orange. Because for all I loved oranges, I hated peeling them. There’s something about the way the pith would dig into my nails and the way that bitter smell of the rind would linger there for hours. And my dad remembered the fact, despite me only being 8 when I told him, nose wrinkled by the sink, scrubbing at the tips of my nails. I can peel them myself now, but even then, he will peel my oranges for me, always taking it from my hands before I can even start. It’s a secret exchange, he peels my oranges and I will split half with him. How was I to know then, what kind of love was said? The clink of a water cup being filled, the halved and shared orange fruit, the umbrella tilted closer to me on a rainy day, what language is that? My dad voiced his love in action, something I was unaccustomed to. Small gestures and offers to make my life easier because it is all he knows how to love me. How was I supposed to understand that? ‘Let me peel this for you, because it is all I can do.’ On most days, as I reflect back, I still feel like a child, just learning to speak, and why fire burns.

The experience of love is a unique one, it can be said in so many different ways. How can simple words encompass all that we feel? What of the misunderstandings and room for doubt? I won’t say action in love is more important than spoken word. How one receives and portrays their love is up to the individual, some value oranges over ‘I love you’s and it’s up to the individual to understand the meaning. But that isn’t taught as much as those three words. The language of love is not limited to what we have to say, but expanding to the actions we do. Action often had no time for thought, which can mean it is all the more genuine than the words we try to filter to make palatable for our audience. We place ‘I love you’ on such a high pedestal yet the more we attempt to define love, the longer the narrative is, the story prolongs itself and we get lost in trying to put it in words. Action for me, is a more natural connector There is something to be said about the unspoken connection between two people, one helping the other finish a half-formed thought in their head without ever saying a word. Love that fits itself in the cracks of our daily lives is just so much more than love that interrupts and takes up space. It’s important to understand this kind of love, the kind that is most meaningful in as little words needed between two people just looking to share something. It will go the long way of showing your appreciation for someone, your thanks for their time and dedication, as well as both your emotional investments. 

The language our love speaks plays like a soundtrack in our daily lives, moving seamlessly from scene to scene, music, as it’s known to, transcends. When you love someone, there is no force in your actions, there just is. Like unspoken actions and its subtlety, blink and you’ll often miss it. To understand the scene, you must first be aware of it; why this shot? Why this movement? Why this song? And when you find the answers, then you will understand. There is too much time wasted on misunderstanding, those scenes taken out of context that will play behind your eyes every night you go to bed. And I know that all too well. Some nights, I close my eyes and I can hear the running water of the sink, and I can smell the citrus as it permeates through the kitchen, as it lingers on my fingertips, and I can feel love slipping past my fingers as I offhandedly give it away.