The way our mothers will watch us eat and say, “just watching you eat makes me full.” That she will say this to us when she is thirty, and when she is eighty. The warmth I see in my dad’s eyes when I ask which of grandma’s dishes was his favorite. The childlike gleam turning into longing in a matter of seconds. The way he cried like a little boy again when she passed. Realizing part of him still is a little boy, looking up at his mother, who is looking down at him, and says, “just watching you eat makes me full.” She still is, still looking down. They never stop looking. She still is looking down, making sure we are full—love, in that strange language of theirs.