“I love you,”
you said.

I became short of breath.
“What do you love?”
I asked. 

“I love you,”
you said, smiling.

“What parts of me don’t you love?” 
I asked sheepishly.

“I love you,”
you kept saying, 
passing your hand through my unkempt hair.

“You don’t love my unkempt hair,”
I protested.

“I love you,”
you kept saying it as if it was your mantra 
and it became mine.

“I love you,” 
I said, and my eyes twinkled.

“How do you love me?” 
you asked, lowering your eyes to my mouth.

“I love you with every thought in my mind,
every doubt in my heart.”

“Why do you love me?” 
you asked, bringing your eyes back to mine.

“Because you complete me and contradict me,” I responded.
“You make me fuller and leaner at the same time.
You fill my empty spaces with delicious sights and flavors.”

“Can’t you do it on your own?” 
you asked.

“I can, but why would I want that?
I love sharing my joy and my pain with you, 
I love sharing
Everything with you.”

“And your secrets?” 
you asked, touching my upper lip with your index right finger.

“What secrets? Every time I have one, I run to tell you. 
I forget the secrets I don’t share with you.”

“And your mother?” 
you asked.

“What about my mother? 
I’d love to share her wisdom with you.
Listen. 
She’s everywhere. 
And your mother? How was she?”

“I don’t like my mother,” you sighed. 
“She was selfish and narrow-minded. 
She never understood me. 
She never saw my success, always bitter and unsatisfied. 
May she rest in Peace.”

“I love your mother,” I whispered. 
“She was overwhelmed and lonely. 
She had nobody to talk to,
She felt alienated and hurt. 
She deserved all the love in the world 
because she gave birth to you.”

You remained silent for a while and then said
“I loved my mother.
I loved her dedication to understanding me 
even though she couldn’t.”

Your face glowed with kindness and forgiveness. 
“My mother was generous, you said.
I was bickering when I belittled her. 
She was a great mom.”

“And your father?” I asked, touching his shoulder.

“My father was my hero. 
He worked in sanitation in all weathers. 
Once, he went with me to a movie where 
he was the only grown-up. 
His hands were like baseball mittens.
My father was one of a kind”.

“So was mine,” I smiled in reminiscence. 
“He listened to my ideas and challenged them. 
He befriended my friends and always made me feel special. 
He was my hero. 
I still mourn him.”

“I mourn my dog,” you said. 
“Robin was my best friend. 
When I meditated, she would push her butt into me. 
I never befriended a human as I did with her 
until I met you.”

“Until I met you, 
I felt comfortable being lonely and out of place. 
Now I feel complete.”

“I’m grateful we met,” 
we said jointly,
and chuckled.