Sabina Ramon, “Dearest”
when i told my father that i loved him, nestled in the jean fabric of our couch,
the sound of boiling water and AC rumbling in the background,
he said:
“honey, the soup’s gonna burn,”
and rushed like a fireman, scrambled off the couch to aide
the stock pot off the stove, used our dark plastic ladle to pour
a bowl of chicken soup for me.
when i tried to say it again, trapped in a chair askew from the dining table,
he grabbed a mandarin from the fridge and peeled it, the remnants of its skin
tucked under his nails. when i told him i could handle it,
he said:
“your fingers always sting when you do it,”
and continued until his hand was left covered in a pool of orange juice,
and he wiped its blood on his pants and asked if i wanted
to watch a movie, the kinds i like, the second rate hallmark ones that run too long.
and when i fell asleep after the big confession,
he paused it to correct the way my neck craned,
and left his blanket on me like a shield from the cold.
the silence used to bother me. i heard as my friends brushed
the ‘i love you’s away in the mornings, wondered what i did wrong–
if he never felt it. but when he drove me halfway across the city
after a full days work, grumbling about the price for a new jersey
on the way to my soccer game, i realized:
love is not a word,
it is the words said in its stead.
it is the choices we make, the soups
that gather in our fridges, the begrudging nights
that end with laughter.
love is my father ladling soup with a side of peeled mandarin,
even when the words stick to the roof of his mouth.
