Jan 2015
Some people say it with ease. I hear it when people talk to, let's say, a child or a parent on phone after conversation—or in person. I wished it were that easy for me.
I am quite sure my parents did not hear it as children. That is why I never heard it growing up. My parents were not affection-less people, though. It was just that the words were foreign to them.
When my grandma was dying of heart disease in 1985—my mom's mom—my mom told her on the phone that she loved her. I think my grandmother said it first, and my mom echoed it. But it was such an unusual three-word saying that my mom choked up and got quite emotional. I think it was more the words spoken, than the realization that her mom would die, that tore my mom up.
Well, my grandmother probably never heard it from her parents. Her father was supposed to be a very compassionate man, but her mother was a funny one. Her dad kept my maternal grandparents afloat. They had thirteen children—my mom being the oldest— and he gave his daughter his old house when he moved out. My mom also remembers him coming over the house with vegetables from his garden to help feed her big family.
My grandma's mom, on the other hand, was unforgiving. Her mother died back in Alsace—in Germany— in an air attack back in World War I. From then on, she despised Italians--even her own Italian son-in-law and the children she would avoid. She remained angry at my grandma for marrying my grandpa—because it must have seemed a foolish move—and from then on my grandma didn't see much of her.
My dad didn't get to hear, "I love you", either, from his folks. I'd bet the farm on that. One of his female cousins had a tale about my grandmother's mom. The cousin's mother was the youngest surviving sibling that my grandmother had. This sister, the cousin's mother, had a friend who came from a very loving and demonstrative family. They said they loved each other all the time, so my great aunt said it to her mother one day. My great grandmother was told to have given her such a look—not saying it back—that this aunt never said it, again. So when her children probably wanted her to say it, saying it wasn't easy.
In 1998, when my brother died of suicide, I was having a hard time with it afterwards. My dad told me I was dwelling on too much. Probably not even a month later, that was news to me. I let him have it.
"You never even told me that you loved me!"
Well, for a while we said it to each other. It was weird, and it didn't last too long, but we said it. It is a shame I had to demand it, though.
Well, saying, "I love you" is still not easy. I say it, but it still doesn't seem natural. I'm all for it, because many people don't hear it enough. It is a foreign language that just needs to be learned.
After all, don't we all crave it? Don't we all need it? No, not the contrived stuff—but we all need to know that we matter and we deserve to be here.
I am quite sure my parents did not hear it as children. That is why I never heard it growing up. My parents were not affection-less people, though. It was just that the words were foreign to them.
When my grandma was dying of heart disease in 1985—my mom's mom—my mom told her on the phone that she loved her. I think my grandmother said it first, and my mom echoed it. But it was such an unusual three-word saying that my mom choked up and got quite emotional. I think it was more the words spoken, than the realization that her mom would die, that tore my mom up.
Well, my grandmother probably never heard it from her parents. Her father was supposed to be a very compassionate man, but her mother was a funny one. Her dad kept my maternal grandparents afloat. They had thirteen children—my mom being the oldest— and he gave his daughter his old house when he moved out. My mom also remembers him coming over the house with vegetables from his garden to help feed her big family.
My grandma's mom, on the other hand, was unforgiving. Her mother died back in Alsace—in Germany— in an air attack back in World War I. From then on, she despised Italians--even her own Italian son-in-law and the children she would avoid. She remained angry at my grandma for marrying my grandpa—because it must have seemed a foolish move—and from then on my grandma didn't see much of her.
My dad didn't get to hear, "I love you", either, from his folks. I'd bet the farm on that. One of his female cousins had a tale about my grandmother's mom. The cousin's mother was the youngest surviving sibling that my grandmother had. This sister, the cousin's mother, had a friend who came from a very loving and demonstrative family. They said they loved each other all the time, so my great aunt said it to her mother one day. My great grandmother was told to have given her such a look—not saying it back—that this aunt never said it, again. So when her children probably wanted her to say it, saying it wasn't easy.
In 1998, when my brother died of suicide, I was having a hard time with it afterwards. My dad told me I was dwelling on too much. Probably not even a month later, that was news to me. I let him have it.
"You never even told me that you loved me!"
Well, for a while we said it to each other. It was weird, and it didn't last too long, but we said it. It is a shame I had to demand it, though.
Well, saying, "I love you" is still not easy. I say it, but it still doesn't seem natural. I'm all for it, because many people don't hear it enough. It is a foreign language that just needs to be learned.
After all, don't we all crave it? Don't we all need it? No, not the contrived stuff—but we all need to know that we matter and we deserve to be here.
