I love you so much, Mum, I tell her over breakfast, when Im about fourteen.
Oh really? she smiles, Then next time I get back from work, just peel some potatoes for me, and Im sure Ill feel it even if you dont say a word.
I adore my cat! I exclaim, nuzzling my cheek against his warm, fluffy fur.
Maybe youd fancy changing his litter then? Dad chimes in. Hes rather struggling, poor thing, trying to avoid sitting in the damp.
I used to listen to my parents and marvel at them: Im talking about love here! What have cat litter or potatoes got to do with it?
I remember once, when I was just a little girl, maybe seven or so, I landed in hospital for a few weeks. It was out near the countryside, and back then, visiting rules were strict. Parents were only allowed to drop off parcels during set hours and could catch a glimpse of their children from the hospital garden, as we popped up to open windowsluckily, it was September and the air was still warm.
Mum would come twice every day. Every morning and evening, the nurse would arrive at my bedside with a bag: still-warm rice pudding shed made before the sun came up, a flask filled with steaming blackcurrant squash, a bit of porridge, a small chicken meatballjust a little of everything, enough for one meal, because in a few hours shed bring more, fresh as ever. Tucked along the side, neatly wrapped in the pages of yesterdays Guardian, Id find three or four sheets of paper, each filled with sketches of outfits for my paper dollremember those, with the little white tabs on the sleeves and shoulders for folding? I adored colouring and carefully cutting them out, and Mum (when did she find the time for this?!) always managed to create endless dresses and skirts, coats and blouses, pyjamas and jackets. And the designs she came up with! Bows and bobbles, polka dots and frillsnever two pieces the same.
I never once asked her to do it. These werent medicines, or Lucozade, or soup. She just somehow knew I loved it so.
And in those days, that was her way of saying, I love you. I only truly understood, and deeply treasured that, years later, but Ive never forgotten.
We so often fail to appreciate the smallest things…
Of course, beautiful words, confessions, poetrytheyre important. We, as women, listen hungrily and need to hear I love you again and again. But if we cant see those words reflected in what you do, they become little more than empty sound. And yes, love can be shown with diamond rings, platinum cufflinks, a great big bouquet, or a hot air balloon ride (not that Id say no)but love can be expressed much more simply, and every day offers a moment for it, provided theres love in our hearts.
A family we know had a little dachshund who became paralysed. Such an affectionate, cheerful pupher back legs stopped working completely. But for three years now, shes managed; her owner built a set of wheels for her himself, just so his beloved dog could still have her walks in the garden, sniffing the fresh air.
They could have carried her in their arms, even wheeled her in a pram. But the little thing wanted so badly to walkreally walk on her ownso they gave her the chance, out of pure love.
When were moved by true affection, ways to show it appear at every turn, and we give of ourselves without a seconds thought.
Moving quietly through the house, we tiptoe past a sleeping loved one, careful not to disturb, gently shifting their pillow so theyre comfortable, tucking in the blanket to warm small feet, or carefully sliding a phone from weakening hands, so a call doesnt interrupt precious rest.
We become master chefs, brewing the worlds best morning tea and arranging a cheese-and-tomato train on a childs plate, steaming towards a daffodil with eggs for petals.
We listen for hours to friends worries because we know they need us; we dream up gifts and surprises, we make the mood as bright as we can.
And when needed, we dont hesitate to spend the last pound on medicine…
Or rip apart our favourite necklace to sew its beads onto a little girl’s snowflake dress.
Life, after all, is both very long and, at the same time, so very short…
Its always these little things that linger in the memory. A loving heart senses just when a silent I love you will mean most.
For as long as I can remember, both my mum and grandma would step into the hall each evening to greet my dad or grandfather returning from workits important for a man to feel hes awaited at home. I try to do the same.
Im sitting in front of my computer, fingers weaving the tangled threads of my thoughts into something half-coherent, when I hear the turn of a key in the door. I think, Ill get up right nowjust as soon as I finish this row, so I dont lose my train of thought. Glancing over my shoulder through the open door, I give a smile: Just a couple more minutes and Ill start dinner. Then its back to my intricate handiwork, words and punctuation spiralling across the page.
And then, silentlyso as not to tangle up the sentences already lined up for the keyboarda mug of strong tea and a little plate holding two sandwiches and two unwrapped chocolates appear beside me. I glance at those sandwiches piled with everything from ham and cheddar to tomatoes and oliveswhatever was in the fridge. The chocolates, their wrappers peeled off so Im not distracted for even a second. In the hush of our home, I hear everything that matters most.
At that moment, I know theres no more sincere way to say: I love you.
It matters so muchknowing how to say love without words.
A holiday trip, a jacket ironed just so, a potato boiled for dinner, a bouquet of balloons, a long-hoped-for doll or a freshly filled cat bowl, a passionate kiss or a blanket tossed gently over cold feet, an umbrella popped open just in time, bunny-shaped pancakes, likes and hearts, smiles and glances.
It doesnt matter if youre listening to stories about the latest strike at work or the missed goal from last nights matchwhat counts is how you listen.
It doesnt matter if youre sipping Veuve Clicquot from crystal or autumn coffee from a takeaway cupits how youre drinking it.
It doesnt matter if youre walking the moonlit streets of Paris or across a sunflower field in Sussexits all about who’s beside you.
We mustnt forget that those bright, moving wordsI love youfade and lose value unless theyre reflected by our actions.
We simply cant let that happen.
Love is never measured by words alone.
