My brother sent me a beautiful essay by Celeste Ng.

IN CHINESE FAMILIES, you greet someone by asking if they’ve eaten yet. It is love expressed as concern: Let me take care of you, let me tend to your most basic need. And the response — I’ve eaten already — is an expression of love, too. Don’t worry, Mom, I’m doing fine.

The essay moves on to discuss the violence against Asian-Americans in our country, and it’s moving. But I was struck by the initial paragraph, because I saw this in my own parents. I would visit, they’d send me home with groceries, cereal, soup, whatever. It used to upset me. Do they think I’m irresponsible? Poor? Do they think that there are no stores where I live? It took me a while to catch on that this was their way of saying I love you, not them thinking I was too incompetent to grocery shop.

When My Taller Half and I were just friends, and I would visit, he’d check the air in my tires and offer me bottled water for the trip home. One time, he gave me a flashlight. A nice, fancy flashlight. The next time I visited, he asked me about the flashlight. I had no idea where it was. He grumbled and gave me another flashlight.

Odd. Does the man have a flashlight fetish?

From then on, every time I headed home, he’d ask if I brought my flashlight, and if I said I didn’t know where it was at the moment, he would shake his head and give me another. He gave one to my youngest son, too. He thought it was odd. Neither of us spend a lot of time thinking of flashlights. They are good when you need them but forgettable every other time.

In the days after The Big Storm but before we married, there were many trips to the REALLY BIG CITY seeking Wi-Fi for work. My Taller Half would always check the air in my tires, check the oil, ask me if I need water for the trip. Check to make sure I had a flashlight.

He spent much of his life on the road and having a really good flashlight was literally a lifesaver. He has flashlights that will flash in case the car breaks down in the night. Red flashlights. USB rechargeable flashlights. I still don’t appreciate flashlights the way he does, but along the way, I realized that giving me a flashlight was his way of telling me he cares about me and wants me to be safe.

He really loves a good flashlight. He also loves a good pen. I guess that’s another thing we don’t always appreciate, but when we’re out, if he likes a particular server or salesperson or just some random person he meets and likes, he will give them a really good pen with the little rubber cap still on the tip. He appreciates the beauty of a pen that writes smoothly. He gave one to our wee doc. He’s given one or two to our pastor, whose stole he straightens every Sunday before or after the service. Pastor just smiles. He figured out My Taller Half much faster than I did.

Usually, if I make the long drive to the doctor, he goes with me, but yesterday, he was tired, and I went on my own. As I was heading out the door, he handed me three flashlights. Three. A red one, a flashing one, another one that did who knows what! I almost cried. He was telling me he was worried, to come home safely. He was telling me he loves me.

I frequently say “I love you,” and I mean it. People say that a lot, and they mean different things by it. I’ve started buying him pens. I know what kind of pens he likes, so I will pick up a pack so that he always has some to share. I don’t buy him flashlights. I leave that to him. I still don’t understand the wonders of a good flashlight, but that’s okay. He does.

After reading Celeste Ng’s essay, I fumbled in my backpack for the three flashlights and returned them, tearfully thanking him for caring about me enough to send me out with three flashlights.

Four.

Four?

Yes, I took one from your backpack after you got home.

He then asked me to return the car keys so I fumbled in the backpack some more. I didn’t find the keys, but I did find another flashlight.

Four?

No, five. He grinned.

Five!

Now that’s love!