“How much do you love me?
I ask my three-year-old sister.
“I wuv you zis much!”
She says, flinging her arms out wide.

I go find my uncle.
“How much do you love me?”
I ask.
“You see that long road that seems to go on forever and ever?”
He says, bringing me to a window.
“My love is like that, it stretches farther than the eye can see.”

I turn to my aunt.
Out that same window, she points to a hill of emerald green.
“You see that grass covered hill? My love is like every blade of grass put together.”

I crunch my way through leaves to the yard, where stand my father and grandfather.
“How much do you love me?”
I ask again.
“As much as the drops of water in every ocean.”
Says my father.
“As much as all the land on Earth.”
Says my grandfather.

Nearby sits my grandmother, knitting placidly as if without a care in the world.
“How much do you love me?”
I ask.
“My love is as big and bright as the stars in the heavens above.”
She answers.

I enter the living room, where rocks my mother and her book.
“How much do you love me?”
I whisper in her ear.
“Oh, honey.”
She says, putting her book down and pulling me close.
(For once I don’t squirm)
“Love can’t be measured out like water or land or stars!
Because love is something inside that never runs out.”

Huh?
“But how much do you love me?”
I insist.
My mother kisses my forehead and simply says
“A lot.”