For my grandma love was simple. Her expectations were few in numbers if she really had any.
I do not remember a single incidence where my grandpa brought her flowers, sweets or anything of value. If they did ever express their love for each other they did so in secrecy. I never saw them holding hands or even sitting close to each other. Yet you couldn’t miss the dense cloud of love that surrounded them.
My mom and my grandpa had a tensed relationship, as each of them fought for their possession over me. Such love makes sense – hungry and violent. But the love my coffee-dark grandpa had for my milk-white grandma – the love without expectations or chocolates or flowers, does make very little sense to me.