l•o•v•e

Sometimes I think about that day when we practiced saying I love you to one another.

I can still see the tears in my father's eyes when he said he loved me and I said it back.

I remember the way my heart ached at the welcomed comfort.

All the days then were filled with the same familiarities.

Hushed prayer and Bible study in the mid mornings

Lawn chores and summer heat.

I remember climbing onto the mower and practically burning my ass hairs off the way that black leather seat held onto every solar breath from the overhead noon sun.

The quiet evenings spent over the shower tub breathing in all the bleach fumes at 10 years old because the shower wouldn't clean itself. 

Late nights weren't filled with boredom because my mom,

hair pinned up with a Ticonderoga pencil,

taught my brothers and I how to draw.

I envied the way she could shade in any picture, so fluid like and effortless.

My hand would impulsively touch the page because I had to make sure that it wasn't accidentally wet and not just a trick of the eye.

The illusionary stroke of an artist's palm must have known the touch of a greater deity in a former life.

How else can anyone explain the way art moves after being made cognizant,

infused by the warm flowing river of breath song drifting over the sketch pad in the form of a hymn.

Creativity wasn't just encouraged.

It was demanded.

Perhaps that was a love language that I didn't understand then.

Now I find myself hoping that maybe as a mother she wanted me to understand something more, 

something that perhaps her mind was unable to accurately convey in words.

Love wasn't spoken of,

much less praised behind the doors of our home.

Yes God loved us,

but my premature walnut sponge in my head could not weigh the definition against itself.

Maybe love was found in the way that she made me practice ASL until my hands grew tired and my shoulders ached.

It was all regimented,

the way we acted on everything,

it was-

vehemently religious.

Structured in a way that idolized the Von Trapp family stiffness and hailed cheaper by the dozen as one of the greatest stories.

I never knew love to be limitless in nature,

it was something that latched onto you with predatory intent.

Keeping you close under the guise of protection and safety.

Love is not something to be earned,

it is something that is given.

It is a welcoming embrace, not a salute or acknowledgment of authority.

I realize now that I was only told I love you when I did something that was pleasing to those that held a position of authority over me.

If only more people normalized saying I love you to someone,

perhaps an acquaintance they've only exchanged the most mundane of pleasantries with,

maybe then ‘I love you’ would stop feeling like 

you're a doll being placed inside of a box by someone who wants to reserve the right to break you with their own hands.

Saying I love you should never be such a milestone or monumental thing.

It's nothing but support, assurance, comfort, 

words defining an embrace.

And I find myself wanting to give that to you too.

Just a simple

I love you