Never Too Late to Say I Love You

Mama did not say I love you. Never, until near the end of her life, when she had less to lose. 

A preschooler, I plinked on the piano in the upper register while Mama plunked out her choir pieces around middle C. I hummed the tunes with her until, under the spell of her singing, I slipped sideways into her pillowy lap. She stopped and stroked my cheek. No kiss. No words. Just the warmth and weight of her hand.

Music plucked a string in Mama’s heart like words couldn’t. When she signed me up for piano and voice lessons, I discovered a sure-fire way to gain her attention and affection. When I played or sang, her dimple surfaced in the sea of faces in the audience. As an adult, I questioned my people-pleasing nature, but as a kid, Mama’s rare smile removed any doubt. 

In my tweens, neither of us pleased the other. I unleashed my frustration in screeching “I hate you” episodes. How she remained unmoved baffled me. One afternoon, simmering in a pubescent sexuality soup, I accused her of never loving my father. After a sub-zero response, I slapped her.

 Her face crumpled. Like a one-girl Greek chorus, I moaned my plea for her to hit me, please hit me, until hoarse. Brimming with sorrow, her steely eyes bored into my chest. She shut them. A tear trickled down her cheek. I couldn’t face her anymore. Escaping into a field behind the house, I whacked dead cornstalks and collapsed sobbing. When I crept back into the kitchen, Mama pulled me into her arms, asked me to sit down, and shared memories of her childhood and marriage more painful than any punch—and more gutting than guilt.

Mama grew up in a household plagued with loss. Two baby sisters died before Mama turned 5, and her father forced her to kiss their cold lips goodbye. My grandmother grappled to cope with birth on birth, death on death, grief flooding the space where love once flowed. Years later, Grandma’s surviving children nearly grown, Mama’s favorite brother of three ended up in prison at 17. Another farewell. More mourning of a life ruined, youth lost to regrets, alcoholism, and premature death. Surviving six siblings, her father, her mother, and my father, Mama’s mantra at each funeral expressed her lifelong anxiety. “Grief is what comes from getting attached.” Even Mama’s marriage devolved into a series of detachments.

Papa joined the Navy in 1941 and deployed for most of 13 years. When I turned 6, Papa returned home for good, and forever after, my parents slept in separate rooms. During junior high sleepovers, I breezed by this oddity and my friends’ questions with a simple, “My dad snores.” But Mama never said ‘I love you’ to him and shrank back when he bent to kiss her. Her coldness confounded me because his kindness and affection toward us 3 children soon made him beloved.  But Mama never forgave him for loving his Navy career more than her, abandoning her to raise a teenage son and two young daughters alone. Loving her meant showing up. 

When I visited my folks during college breaks, Mama clanged pots and pans in the morning to roust me out of bed. I caught on—she missed me. Showing up to share tea, toast, and chat bonded us over the years, but no words of love floated over our steaming cups. Her love notes arrived in her letters.

Until Alzheimer’s silenced her, Mama wrote my siblings and me a letter every week, closing each with Love, Mama. No fear of immediate rejection. No physical demands. A distanced declaration. Did she write Papa letters those years he served overseas? Sign them With love? Did he write her back? After he died, she spoke of missing him, wrote tender poems about him, and recalled his smile when she stroked his brow as he lay dying. She’d re-attached to Papa after 25 years of aging and sharing tea and toast with him. Widowed, she changed. 

When I arrived on her doorstep during her last decades, she still didn’t kiss me. I hugged her, kissed her weathered cheeks, and played the piano and sang for her whenever she asked. But each time I climbed into my car to leave, she embraced me and murmured “I love you, Mary.” Her dimple buried in deep wrinkles matched mine. Her bent body, arms outstretched waving goodbye, melted in my rearview mirror in a blur of tears. 

Published in Sooner or Later , Personal Story Publishing Project Fall 2023 Edition