Sense and Sensitivity

He sensed that something is bothering me. But he doesn’t know what is. He doubted that I was angry with him, but asked me anyway, for I was quiet the whole morning. He decided he didn’t want to watch TV. He decided he was bored, so he could keep me company while I worked in the tiny kitchen, “mummy, this kitchen is not too small for 2 persons, right?” “No, it is not.” I replied silently. He made small talks here and there; delicate and non-intrusive, sensitive and matured. He asked if he could help, and help did he. He helped to peel onions that made his eyes tear up so much. He helped me fry coutons. He helped me make potato dumplings. He helped me bring out the trash. He helped to set the table. He helped keep the folded clothes in the cupboard.

There is a heart that aches for her home, her mother, her sisters. The heart weeps secretly, sobs inaudibly.

He has stroked and comforted that homesick heart tenderly and lovingly. He doesn’t know he had.