FISH IS A LOVE LANGUAGE

         Most of my earliest memories with my dad consist of me helping him out around the house – carrying his tools, handing him nails, and running errands for him. One particular time, he was working on the roof and I was patiently waiting for him at the foot of the ladder. Unknowingly to him, the wrench he had placed on the roof beside his work area was slowly sliding down the tilted tin roof, right from above me. There I was, sitting en garde the foot of the ladder then *PLUNK* the wretched wrench had fallen squarely right on my head. Immediately, I wailed. Looking back now, I don’t think it really hurt that badly or perhaps the memory of pain gets lesser over time. 

        At some point in my growing up, I remember now, I’ve thought back often to that moment and thought to myself  “I should’ve been a son.”

        Then, came the fishing. No, I never went fishing. But I was then old enough to get awakened when my father and grandfather came back from fishing in the middle of the night. I would start first by looking for the clams. Clams were my favorite, and my grandfather made sure to pick a few for me every time. After the clams, I would look for the rabbit fish – not particularly a favorite, but back then I loved to gouge out the eyes of raw rabbit fish and eat it. (There’s actually an oral tradition of a girl with this affliction that I would often get told growing up.)

        My mom would be up too at that point, assigning which fish to share, which to keep, etc. It was a moment that was actually riddled in protocol that I was wholly unaware of at the time.

        As I grew up and moved away from home, I drew farther and farther from those traditions; so much so, that the memory of them hardly ever came up – until I went back home to visit at the age of 25. I found out then that my little brother, six years younger than me, is a fisherman! I was so proud, and shocked in the realization that the little boy I last saw was now all grown up. 

        The first morning upon arriving, he came out of the house and looked for me. “There is fish for you in the fridge.” I almost cried. I realized immediately how fish can be a language. He had gone fishing just prior to my arrival and had set aside fish for me to eat. I started to recall the last time I saw him. I was still a boarding school student, traveling back and forth every summer, he was in 5th grade then. Every morning after my arrival back home, he would wake up and cut up fish for me. Lazy as I am, I would sleep late and he would keep calling out for me to wake up, “Gotah, wake up, come outside, there's sashimi here for you.” He would keep doing that until I woke up and went to see him. 

        I remember thinking ‘he must've missed me, but didn't know how to say it’ and yes, that part was true too. However, in my adult years later, I truly believe that I undervalued his motive to have fish for me every time. My little brother would try his best very visibly, not to cry for me whenever I left home. In our adult years, he still never misses a departure farewell or an arrival proclamation of fish in the fridge. There is a language there, that is grounded in quiet action and dedicated consideration, that has slowly become my measurement for love over time – because that is how I have been loved all my life. 

        And frankly now when I look back, I’m so glad I wasn’t a son...