February 11 2010

Text By Greg Fallis

She can never remember turmeric. When they cook together she'll say "Hand me the ant repellent" and he knows what she means. It's something he told her once, something his gram had taught him: turmeric repels ants. She says "Hand me the ant repellent" and he hears "I listen to you and remember your stories and that's part of what love is."

When it's her turn to do the laundry she folds his socks. She lays them out, one on top of the other, folds them in half then tucks the sock inside itself. "It looks neater in the drawer," she says, and he hears "These small kindnesses are part of what love is."

She takes naps, always on her back. When she goes to bed at night she sleeps on her side, but napping—always on her back. He finds it endearing, but he's never mentioned it to her, never asked her why; he doesn't want to make her self-conscious. He keeps it to himself and when she says "I'm going to take a nap" he hears "I make myself vulnerable to you." And he smiles and says "Okay," hoping she hears "You're safe with me; that's part of what love is."

Part of love is hearing what's said, not just what's spoken.