I love you so much, Mum, I murmured over breakfast when I was about fourteen.
Oh really? Mum would smile, Well, next time, peel some potatoes for dinner before I get home, and then Ill feel it no words needed.
I adore my cat! I used to sigh, rubbing my cheek against her fluffy, warm fur.
Do you? Dad would reply, Could you change her litter then? She hates sitting in it when its wet.
Id listen, bewildered. I was talking about love! What did cat litter and potatoes have to do with that?
I remember being only about seven, staying in hospital for a few weeks. It was just on the edge of the city, and in those days, hospitals were rather strict. Parents could only leave parcels during set hours, and visitations were limited to waving from the park outside when we pressed our faces against the open windows lucky it was September.
Twice a day, Mum would visit. In the morning and evening, the matron put a paper parcel on my bedside table, filled with cottage cheese Mum had just made, still-warm apple compote, porridge, a tiny homemade meat pie. Just enough so I could finish it, before shed bring fresh things later. And tucked against the side, inside the newspaper to keep them flat were three or four sheets of thick paper, each with a different set of outfits Mum had drawn for my paper doll (remember? With those tiny white tabs, to bend over its shoulders). Id spend hours colouring in the dresses and cutting them out. How did Mum ever find the time to draw those endless skirts, coats, pajamas, all with different bows, pom-poms, and spotty prints?
Id never asked for any of this. It wasnt medicine or chicken broth. She just knew how much I loved those dolls clothes.
That was her way of saying, I love you.
I only truly understood that decades later, but Ive never forgotten it.
So often, we underestimate the quiet details.
Pretty words and romantic confessions are lovely of course they are and we women do adore the music of I love you. But if we never see those words echoed in the little daily things, they become faint and hollow. Saying, I love you, can be done with diamond rings or a surprise trip in a hot air balloon and thats nice (who would object?).
But you can show love far more simply, and every day gives us a chance to do just that, if we really love.
A friend of ours has a spaniel, clever and gentle, whose back legs became paralysed. Its been three years now, but their dog still roams on wheels his owner fashioned from an old pram, just so he could enjoy a proper walk every day. They couldve carried him out or wheeled him in a pushchair, but their dog wants so much to walk, and so they gave him that chance because they love him.
When true love stirs us, ways to express it appear everywhere. We creep into rooms on tiptoes not to disturb the sleeping, gently reshaping a pillow or tucking in a stray foot beneath the blanket. Or, shaking our heads, we slide a mobile from tired hands so an evening call wont shatter their dreams.
We become the best cooks, making perfect morning tea, arranging cheese into little trains on the childrens plates that steam towards a blossom of eggs and tomatoes. We listen for hours as friends unburden their souls. We come up with presents and little surprises, create atmospheres and quietly, without a fuss, hand over our last crisp notes for someones tablets.
We tear apart a favourite necklace just to sew its beads round a winter nativity costume.
Lifes both endlessly long and gone in a heartbeat. And those little things they linger far longer than we expect. A loving heart always knows the moment when its I love you matters the very most.
For as long as I recall, Mum and Gran would always stand in the hallway when Dad or Grandpa returned from work after all, a man should always feel someone is waiting for him at home. I try to live that way myself.
I sit now, stitching together tangled threads of half-thoughts into something that looks like sense, tapping at keys. I hear the key turning in the door and think, Ill get up, any moment now just as soon as I finish this row so I dont drop a stitch. I glance over my shoulder at the open door, smiling: Just a couple of minutes and then well have supper. Then I lose myself in my weaving of words and punctuation.
And then, magically, silently, so as not to disturb my word-knitting, a mug of strong tea appears on my desk, beside a plate with two sandwiches and two sweets, already unwrapped. I see the sandwiches, brimming with everything roasted ham, cheese, cucumber, olives, every scrap found in the fridge; I see the shiny treats, unwrapped so I neednt even think to stop working, and in the quiet of my flat, I hear a hundred precious things that dont need words.
And at that very instant, I know theres no better way on earth to say, I love you.
Its such a very important skill saying I love you without words.
With holidays together and potatoes boiled just so, ironed shirts and swirling balloons, a long-awaited toy and a freshly-filled cat bowl, a fierce kiss and a blanket tucked round your toes, an open umbrella and pancakes with bunny-ears, likes and hearts online, smiles and quiet glances.
It makes no difference if youre listening to someone worry about the fate of government, or their disappointment over a missed goal what matters is how you listen.
Whether you drink Veuve Clicquot from a slender glass or autumn coffee from a paper cup, what matters is the spirit with which you drink it.
Whether you walk beneath midnight London or wander fields of drowsy poppies what truly matters is who walks beside you.
We simply must remember: those magical, cherished words I love you vanish into dust if not reflected in the things we do. And we must never let that happen.
Love can never be measured by words on their own.
