When I met her, my sister-in-law, I terrified her with a hug. She jerked back as if I were robbing her. They don’t hug in France. Two kisses. One on each cheek. That’s it. Men or women. French wasn’t only the language I needed to learn.
But oh, to have a hug. This is my voice. A few have embraced it with me (no pun intended, well, kind of…) and it is glorious. But most of the time, I bisous (kiss) and bisous again. Allowing them to love me as they do, as they can.
My brother is not French of course. But he is not a hugger. Nor a kisser. He doesn’t say I love you… or at least never first. He won’t say, you look pretty. He doesn’t speak my language. And I could feel badly about that, as I have for a long time, or I could learn to speak his. I could allow him to love me as he does, as he can.
Yesterday he brought over fish that he caught that morning. Minnesota Walleye. Fresh fish. Not a hug. Not a kiss on both cheeks, but love, just the same.
We can all find a way to each other. Bisous!