I Love You, You Know
In the morning, I feel the urge to spread the love. My dog is the first person I see. "I love you, wee doggie! Isn't life wonderful?"
The dog replies, "pant pant pant, can I go outside to sniff the frost-covered ground full of smells and intrigue and life?" Like all good dogs, he talks in implied speech, all eyebrows and tail and attitude and italics.
My son is still sleeping. I could rush into his bedroom and wake him with a hug. "I love you! You make my life wonderful!" I will add endearments that are reserved just for him, that make him roll his eyes but secretly I suspect he loves.
Wonder Boy might say, "Mo-ooooom (in that drawn-out, annoyed pre-teen way)." Or he might say, sleepily with a smile, "Thanks, mom." And he's been known to say, "I love you too, Mom."
At the hospital, my father might grumpily ask for water and ice chips, and then fuss at me when I have the wrong straw or the cup is too full. I want to say, "I love you!" but when one is thirsty, the words do little to quench it.
I have a friend who is going through rough times, for whom "I love you" is a slap in the face, a reminder that the threads of his life are unraveling. The words themselves have the effect of a slap, and from his great heart in pain, his first reaction is "Is that all you got?"
We live in a world where love is a verb. Love is something that you do, not say. It's easy to say, even. It's a crutch, it's a substitute for action. Sit on your ass, say "I love you," and then do nothing – that's the recipe for madness, I think. If all the world has is a simpering "I love you" and a vacuous stare, maybe a weak hug, then what good is that.
Bring on the dog leashes, the shovels, the ice chips, the soup pots and the humanitarian aid. Love is a verb, people.
The dog replies, "pant pant pant, can I go outside to sniff the frost-covered ground full of smells and intrigue and life?" Like all good dogs, he talks in implied speech, all eyebrows and tail and attitude and italics.
My son is still sleeping. I could rush into his bedroom and wake him with a hug. "I love you! You make my life wonderful!" I will add endearments that are reserved just for him, that make him roll his eyes but secretly I suspect he loves.
Wonder Boy might say, "Mo-ooooom (in that drawn-out, annoyed pre-teen way)." Or he might say, sleepily with a smile, "Thanks, mom." And he's been known to say, "I love you too, Mom."
At the hospital, my father might grumpily ask for water and ice chips, and then fuss at me when I have the wrong straw or the cup is too full. I want to say, "I love you!" but when one is thirsty, the words do little to quench it.
I have a friend who is going through rough times, for whom "I love you" is a slap in the face, a reminder that the threads of his life are unraveling. The words themselves have the effect of a slap, and from his great heart in pain, his first reaction is "Is that all you got?"
We live in a world where love is a verb. Love is something that you do, not say. It's easy to say, even. It's a crutch, it's a substitute for action. Sit on your ass, say "I love you," and then do nothing – that's the recipe for madness, I think. If all the world has is a simpering "I love you" and a vacuous stare, maybe a weak hug, then what good is that.
Bring on the dog leashes, the shovels, the ice chips, the soup pots and the humanitarian aid. Love is a verb, people.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home