The Language of Love

Home from my trip to Mexico, I’m lugging my laptop, books, yoga mat, and bathroom kit up the stairs. Ron is behind me carrying my overstuffed backpack. The two of us had barely been able to talk all week. A wind storm blew down the wireless tower in the small town where I was staying, so Internet was out of the question. My cell phone caught a signal down at the beach, but the connection was so weak that Ron and I couldn’t understand what either person was saying, our voices distant and broken.

Hola,
Gracias, and
Vino rojo, por favor is about the extent of my Spanish, so not only was my communication with Ron cut off, it was limited with others as well. Six days as a solo traveler in a country where I don't speak the language gave me lots of time to think, and I realized my relationship with Ron needed a little rekindling.

At the top of the stairs, I glance in the kitchen. I see a plant with tall green stalks. The flowers aren’t ready to bloom, but they will be soon with a little water, sunlight, and love. Even though Valentine’s Day is over, Ron chilled a bottle of champagne and set out a plate of chocolate covered strawberries. Within minutes we are settled into our home celebrating our reunion.

“I love the plant,” I say.

“It’s for Leo,” Ron says (Leo was our baby that I miscarried last month).

I bury my head in Ron’s chest and thank him for reading my mind. I feel him kiss the top of my hair.

Who needs the Internet and cell phone when we have the language of love?