What is love? A child wonders. What does it feel like, smell
like, taste like? How does it move? How long does it last?
And as she prepares a traditional Chinese meal for
her family, the child's mother replies: her love for him is rosy as
wolfberries, warm like tea, sweeter than the red dates she puts in his soup. It
shines through the water like its own brilliant sun. It goes round and round
with no beginning and no end. Because a mother's love for a child is always
there, warm and soft, broad and tender.