Three little words.
They can pack a big punch.
But do they, always? Do we say them enough? Do we say them too much that they become meaningless?
The events of this week have got me thinking, as death always does, about love and life in general. I’m typically inclined to say that when someone takes their own life they’re being absurdly selfish. But in this case, with someone so young, there probably wasn’t a selfish motive behind it- the child simply couldn’t comprehend the finality of the decision. I know his family (mom, dad, sisters, brother) loved him. I know his grandparents (both sets) loved him. I know his cousins and aunts and uncles loved him. But do we say that enough? Or are we too busy focusing on the silly stuff they do, or the stuff that they do wrong to tell them we love them?