We were sitting around the dinner table and Peter reached over and rubbed Penny's arm.

"Why you do that, Dad?" she asked.

"It's a way of saying I love you," he said.

She nodded. A moment later, she reached over to Marilee and rubbed Marilee's arm. "I love you, Marilee."

The same night, I read a essay by Jonathan Franzen adapted from a graduation speech he gave at Kenyan College. Franzen considers the relationship we have with gadgets and he compares them to a love affair gone wrong:

...our technology has become extremely adept at creating products that correspond to our fantasy ideal of an erotic relationship, in which the beloved asks for nothing and gives everything, instantly, and makes us feel all powerful, and doesn't throw terrible scenes when it's replaced by an even sexier object and is consigned to a drawer.

He goes on to contrast this false version of love with real love:

Love is about bottomless empathy, born out of the heart's revelation that another person is every bit as real as you are. And this is why love, as I understand it, is always specific. Trying to love all of humanity may be a worthy endeavor, but, in a funny way, it keeps the focus on the self, on the self's own moral or spiritual well-being. Whereas, to love a specific person, and to identify with his or her struggles and joys as if they were your own, you have to surrender some of your self.

I recommend reading the essay in full, both for the problems he raises with our increasing use of various technologies and for the further reflections he has about the particularity of love and the power of love. But for now, I think of that moment where Peter gave Penny a glimpse of real and specific love. When you love someone, you reach out your hand. You give a touch of affirmation and affection.

Every day, Penny spends time loving Marilee. She sings to her. She makes her laugh. Without even knowing it, she gives of herself. And her four-month old sister learns a little bit about love in return.