Love, when searched for online, is defined as “an intense feeling of deep affection.” 

And that is true but it is so much more than affection or feeling. It is moments in time, past and present. It is the understanding of humans and things. 

Love is seeing an old couple holding hands. No one knows their story better than they do, yet we can guess. They may have been high school sweethearts. Their first date may have been at the movies. Their wedding dance is set to a song that reminds them of when they first said “I love you”. Their nights consist of reading books in silence while sitting next to each other on the porch. Their grandchildren are sitting at the kitchen table on a visit, watching their grandparents dance to the radio while cooking dinner.

They are love. They are in love. Growing old together with someone who knows you better than you will ever know yourself is love. Spending your years learning what they like and what they don’t. Knowing what each look or laugh means is love. The loving of another person. The deep emotional connection and appreciation of someone else. The pure warmth that the presence of them brings to the room. That’s love.

My mother is love. 

Being sick in elementary school, getting called out, and heading home to a comfortable place on the couch. All the soup and orange juice you could ever need to feel better. The trips to the store to get all the medicine needed to make your sniffles go away. The beds made near the bathroom to lessen the trip to the toilet when throwing up at midnight. And if there ever was a trip to vomit, she’d be standing in the doorway with a glass of water, not leaving until you were well enough to finally fall asleep. Or her sitting up while you do your homework so she can finish sewing your halloween costume. Her showing up to class parties so you know you weren’t forgotten when everyone else had their mom’s there. 

My mom is love. The love of being able to sit and talk to her for hours on end after school or work. Learning about her childhood, how me and my sisters followed her and my aunt in their footsteps. Seeing her smile when she finally has a cozy day to bake zucchini bread like she did when you were four. Or lay on the couch watching her favorite movie. Her laughing so hard she can’t tell the rest of her story. She is love. Motherly love. Her being there when it seemed it didn’t matter most only to look back and realize it meant the world. Her supporting me and holding my hand whenever I needed it. 

That is love. To have someone grow with you, teach you, and always accept you as you are.

And love is so much more than anything that can ever be put into words.

It is listening to your favorite childhood song after years of not hearing it. It’s making matching friendship bracelets in middle school. It is baking christmas cookies with your grandmother. It’s listening to an Elvis song with your dad, listening to him sing along and telling you he used to sing this when you were a baby. It is playing in the yard with your neighbors while your parents barbeque. It’s telling someone your favorite book only for them to go and read it so they can talk to you about it. It’s finally being able to follow through on a matching halloween costume with your friend. It is staying up with your best friend at a sleepover giggling about nothing genuinely funny. It’s coming home to see your dog so excited to see you after a long day of school. It is playing dress up with your sisters in your basement while a Barbie movie plays in the background. It is giving someone a gift after weeks of planning for their birthday, the gift itself does not matter so much, just the thought of how excited they will be to open it. It is being able to smell the flowers someone bought you because it reminded them of you. It’s being carried by your dad to your room as a child.

It is talking. Looking. Sitting. Dancing. Smiling. Crying. Laughing. Walking. Reading. Singing. Writing. Sewing. Anything.

Love is moments that make you who you are. Or the people who make the moments. 

It is everything. It is a deep feeling as it was defined. Maybe that feeling is affection or is even sadness. Anger. 

I define love as feeling. Not a feeling. Not a certain one at least. Love is feeling so deeply that you are reminded you are only human. Love is remembering you get to experience these things for the first time. Love is, as cliche as it seems, living. 

Knowing you are alive. Feeling it. Finding it around you, in the trees and pictures of sunsets. Being able to hold it like you did when your father held your hand in a busy store. Seeing a mother walk around with her baby humming a tune until they fall asleep.

Love is being alive and being able to appreciate it. Feeling as though your heartstrings are being played as the instruments of songs. Or that you and another person will mold together like clay if the hug goes on any longer. The light from a star in the sky of life. The book of existing that I am so ready to read the next chapter of.

Love is being. It’s affection. It’s friendship. It’s understanding. It’s moving forward. It’s human. It’s living.

I define love as love. Different for each, yet able to send a wave through the rough and uncharted waters of a life that is so brilliant and exciting and so very much worth living.