What Love Looks Like

When my mother comes to stay, she always wants to cook for us. 

“What do you want me to make?  Tell me.  I want to make you eat,” she says almost every day.  My father does not cook, but when we go to Connecticut, where my parents live with my brother’s family, we find he has stocked the fridge with the yogurt we prefer.  My brother picks up bagels and cream cheese for our breakfast.  These are some of the ways they show their love.

I thought of this recently.  As Marilyn and I prepared to go away to Chicago for the long MLK weekend, she went to the bakery to get us some breakfast treats to enjoy in the hotel room.  As we were loading up the car that evening, Marilyn asked, “Did you see the muffin I got you?”  Happy anticipation filled her voice.  The muffin was beautiful; a slice of golden apricot sat atop dark grain filled with berries.  Holding the treat and seeing Marilyn’s smile, I felt loved.

That evening, we called my parents from the hotel room to see how they were; both of them had the respiratory flu and had slept all afternoon.  Their hoarse voices filled with warmth and appreciation as they described the cups of tea and the biscuits that Christal, my sister-in-law, had left for them before she took the twins to hockey practice. 

The muffin on our hotel room windowsill.

“She even brought up the dry bhel we like with tea,” my father marveled, mentioning the savory puffed rice snack he relishes. 

My mother added, “We got two very loving girls.  Really.  They take such good care of us.”  She was referring to Christal and Marilyn, their daughters-in-law, who also show love through food.

Michigan Avenue at night from our hotel room window.

The view from the Field Museum cafe, where Marilyn and I shared a cream cheese brownie and a coffee.

Immersion

Settling down with coffee, biscotti, and books.

I've been studying hard these past few days, buried in books as I prepare to teach Introduction to Poetry for the first time and to teach from a new textbook in my Humanities course on South Asia. I park myself at Cafe Kopi for hours at a time, and it feels like pure luxury to read and think and plan and then read some more.

Occasionally, I look up and notice that different people are now seated at the table next to mine. At the end of the day, I pile up my books, put them in my backpack, and walk a few blocks to my car.

The cold air on my face and the rhythm of my feet hitting the sidewalk take me back to my years as a student. I would focus for hours at a time on writing a paper and then clear my head on the walk home, feeling the satisfaction of having worked hard.

A few days from now, I'll return to faculty meetings and then to the busy pace of teaching five days a week. This immersion will become a pleasant memory. For now, though, I am enjoying diving into my books.

I have always loved being surrounded by books, pens, notepads--all the tools of my trade.  This photo was taken when I was several hours into my work.