Instead of, “I forgive you, I know you meant well,” we accept the fruit with soft eyes; compliment its sweetness, exclaim - “you always pick the best watermelon – how do you just know?” As though there really existed a secret knock you could rat against a rind; to hear its hollowness; to determine the composition of a perfect cantaloupe.

But, when the fruit is gone, or the treason too irresolvable, we apologise for each other: “you know he didn’t mean it.” Then, it is the flitting of remorseful eyes at the dinner table, from the guilty party, which provides non-verbal confirmation of the fact.

The walls of our pride are built so stubbornly high, sometimes I think it would take a homicide to climb them.

In this house, love is subtle. That does not mean it is ever absent. From a young age, I learn to read between the lines. On balance, I think that is a good thing.

Now I know that not everybody communicates in the same way.

I know that sometimes, love sounds like “I am proud of you”; like “I trust you to know what is right”; that it feels like a space to grow; a sandbox to practice falling over in. Other times, it sounds like chemistry lessons at the dining table; like giving up cigarettes; like a drive to the airport at 3am; or working, some nights, until dawn - to pay for your education, then getting up the following morning to make a packed lunch.

Sometimes love does not sound like “sorry” or “I love you”, when those things are too difficult to say.

Sometimes love is just silence and soft eyes. 

Sometimes love is a bowl of fruit.