Love

Marion, Elsie, and Willis

I don’t remember the word “love”

being used in my family

when I was a child.

Never recited

in a sing-songy voice

to accompany departures

or bedtime tuck ins:

“Love you!”

Never heard my parents say it to one another,

though my father often gazed at my mother

as though she were a crisp apple

and he a hungry worm.

My mother’s gaze,

when she looked on him at all,

tended more toward silent exasperation.

For my father, I was a responsibility,

one he was grateful not to have more of.

I’d been told the story more than once,

without any attempt at humor,

that when I was born,

our father took one look at me

and said, “Okay, that’s it.  No more.”

I never considered the possibility

that he might love me.

Love seemed,

somehow,

beside

the

point.

Whatever the point might be.

Did my mother love me?

Of course!

I was her baby,

her reason for being.

She cuddled me until I grew past cute,

but even after withdrawing her touch

she stood close,

close enough

to take the imperfectly ironed blouse

from my hands

and redo it,

to rewhip the eggs

I had just finished beating,

to let the school know

which teacher

must be mine.

But love?

Of course, she loved me.

What else could it be called?

Still, the word must have floated

somewhere in the family ether,

because once my brother and I

argued over which of us

Mommy loved best.

I was astonished!

How could he imagine,

even for an instant,

her love more his

than mine?

We raced to her, each certain

of being proven

right.

“You love me best, don’t you, Mommy?”

“No, you love me!”

Our mother smiled and answered

as all mothers have answered

since the beginning of time.

She said, of course,

she loved us both

the same.

Disappointment pounded through my veins.

My brother’s, too, I suppose,

though I never asked

and at the time,

I didn’t care.

Still, I went away knowing—

in my deepest heart I was certain—

that, whatever she said,

Mommy loved me best.

I understood, though.

She had to lie

to protect Will’s feelings.

What other explanation could there be?

And yet, even as I consoled myself,

I found that I was wondering.

Was it possible?

Could it be?

Might my brother

be thinking

the very

same

thing?