Love is a plate of fruit

When I think of love in the purest sense, it rarely generates an image of romantic, candlelit dinners or passionate declarations of emotion. It’s not that I don’t care for these gestures of love–(in fact, I can confidently say I will always appreciate a thoughtfully planned meal)–but it just so happens what immediately comes to mind instead is a plate of fruit. It seems so strange to associate such a complicated and awe-inspiring emotion to something so mundane as a plate of fruit, but it comes almost as second nature to me. I envision the crescent-shaped apple slices fanned neatly next to tiny clementine wedges, every section carefully trimmed of stringy bits or stray peel. A smattering of blueberries decorates the rest of the plate, forming the perfect colorful kaleidoscope snack that I can easily eat in 5 minutes. 

For the entirety of my childhood and adolescence, that plate of fruit has been a constant, unwavering reminder of my parent’s love and devotion. When I was little, I would so often crave the words of affirmation that my peers got so easily from their parents. The phrases “good job!” or “I’m proud of you”, so easily rolled off of the tongues of others, seldom seemed to escape my parents’ lips. Growing up surrounded by these constant declarations of adoration, I didn’t understand why it was so hard for my parents to express the same feelings. I mindlessly ate the plate of fruit placed by my desk every night, fuming over their sparing praise. I inwardly resented them, obliviously attributing their lack of outward affection as a sign of inadequate parenting while remaining completely unaware of their many sacrifices. Because the truth is, while I got to unwittingly snack on the juiciest part of the apple, my mom was always the one behind me eating the core. 

This love language culture clash is probably not a foreign concept to many Asian-American children growing up in America. There is so much room for misunderstanding and miscommunication, making it difficult to truly appreciate what our parents have done for us. In fact, the kind of love that my parents (and many asian parents) show is one of quiet fortitude. It’s the kind of love that stands silently in the face of trial or tribulation to give you the very best it has to offer without you ever having to know the struggle that it took to get there. It’s a love that, just as simple and enduring as a plate of fruit, will always remain by your side through it all.