The love of a silent I love you

There is a joke within the Asian community that Asian mothers don’t say “I love you”; they cut up fruit for you.

Well, dear Mama, my belly is rounded by the strawberries, melons, apples, pears, peaches, pineapples, mangos, oranges, kiwis, and grapes you wash and cut with your three-step method. My mouth remembers the crisp sweetness of all the best pieces you’ve saved for me.

At every meal, you would deftly pick out my favorite parts of each dish for me. You would sweetly carve out the fish belly, the chicken ankles, and the braised bamboo shoots and set them in my bowl. “The most delicious” you always say.

When I was little, I thought being a parent meant giving up the best piece of everything.

We don’t end calls or farewells with “I love you” because that love is set into my marrow. I remember car rides with you where I would recite my day, adding joking commentary to elicit a laugh from you. To my little ears, there was no greater pride than making you belly laugh. What a greater sound than a simple “I love you.”

You showed me your love in every piano, art, flute, gymnastics, and tennis lesson you took me to. Even when pennies were pinched, you never allowed them to pinch my dreams. While I’ve spent hours complaining over the piano, lamenting over my mediocre tennis skills, and procrastinating my flute practicing, you gave me the privilege to learn those skills. “I give you what I wished I had” you always say.

What a life you have given me. A life where my friends span across the globe, my dreams keep getting bigger and wilder, and my belly is always full of your delicious creations.

We don’t say “I love you” because how could “I love you” capture our love?

You love me with your hands that kneed steamed buns for me to eat. Hands that fold wontons and make noodles and braise meats. You love me with your arms that link with mine as we walk through the mall, happily gossiping about the latest drama. You love me with your words that tell me you believe in me. You love me with soft words and harsh words—words that yell out of love and worry. You love me from afar when you’d pick up my 3 AM call when I lived abroad. How can that love be squeezed into three words?

I owe my life to you but also the core of me. So many friends have commented that we share the same speech pattern, the same sense of humor, style, and laughter.

We are also imperfect. We are so similar that we fight the same. Yet like the waves, anger and frustrations retreat, and a bowl of fruit is all that remains.

We don’t say “I love you” because it is understood. But, I hope you know how much I love you.

It is no easy feat to raise a child, but you have done so with remarkable grace and humor.

As a child, I’m often the taker– the reason for your labor and worries.  As I grow, I hope I’ll be your giver to make up for all the best pieces you saved for me. We don’t often talk about our feelings like this, but you deserve to hear my gratefulness more often.

What an honor to call you my Mom. What an honor for those of us who are lucky to be born into such beautiful expressions of love.