The Words Love Speaks

We are told we become in our age

more transparently the person

we have always been.

If that was true for my mother,

then she became

silence itself.

For her last ten years I,

the dutiful daughter,  

brought her to live nearby.

Invited often into my home,

she rarely spoke.

Not even a pleasant comment

about the dinner

shared at my table,

two, three, four nights a week.

When I found a special recipe,

she might ask the name of the dish,

and memorize the ingredients to carry

back to her senior residence.

Bragging rights, I knew. 

But otherwise, she never once lifted her face

from its concentrated attention on her plate to say,

“Thank you.

This is a nice dinner.”

My partner,

unaccustomed

to such graceless silence,

spoke up occasionally.

“Elsie,” she would say,

“isn’t this a nice dinner?”

And Mother would look up,

startled,

nod,

and return

to her meal

without a word.

One day, I took a steadying breath,

and said, “Mother,

are you aware

you seldom thank me

for the things I do for you?”

She studied me,

for a long, silent time,

then said, simply, honestly,

“I don’t know why I can’t do that.”

And there the conversation ended.

When I drove her home that evening,

when she opened the car door,

when she stepped out,

her back turned,

she said to the surrounding air,

clipped,

final,

“Thank you. That was a nice dinner.”

And she shut the door

behind her.

I sighed and drove home

in my own silence,

wondering at the small girl within

who still longed for,

not just love—

that was certain—

but the words

love speaks.

Years later,

I was trying out a new love.

A woman, of course.

Who else is there to desire?

All was good between us,

solid and sweet.

We planned a future

of perfect understanding.

But first, a pause.

She, to have surgery.

I, to be her loving caretaker.

And so, we entered a new reality.

I, up and up and up in the night.

I, making meals,

laying them before her,

carrying much away

uneaten.

I, doing laundry,

changing linens,

mopping urine.

And more.

And more.

And more.

She accepted each offering

in silence.

Finally, I took a steadying breath

and said, “My dear,

are you aware

you seldom thank me

for the things I do for you?”

This woman I was learning to love

studied me

for a long, silent time,

then said, simply, honestly,  

“I don’t know why I can’t do that.”

And there, the conversation ended.

When the time was right,

I went home

without

her.

Photo by Martin Podsiad on Unsplash‍ ‍