Margaret/Mother

I’ve carried this story for a long time and it’s the first time I’ve allowed the words to settle onto the page.

When surrounded by family, I heard only one name spoken—Mother. Her husband Art used it and so did her children. Mother sounded so formal to my ears; I had grown up calling my own mother mom. With time and familiarity Mother softened, rolling off my tongue with deep affection and love—carrying no formality at all.

Mother, Margaret, is my mother-in-law.

It was the summer of 1974, not long after Gary and I moved from Denver, Colorado to Queens, New York, when his parents drove from Euclid, Ohio, where they lived, to visit. We arranged to meet Gary’s parents at a hotel in upstate New York, along with my parents, who lived on Long Island. It was a simple idea—to bring the two sets of parents together, to give them a chance to know one another, and for me to begin getting to know Gary’s parents.

Before this visit, I had met his parents only a couple of times—once during a short summer visit to Ohio in 1973, and again at our wedding that November. Neither occasion allowed much time alone to truly get to know one another.

There isn’t much I recall about those few days together besides thinking that it was a pleasant visit. Our parents were nothing alike, there was no connection. Over the many years Gary and I were together I can remember the two sets of parents seeing each other three more times—at a holiday gathering, an anniversary party and a wedding.

And that is not why I’m writing.

There was one moment—an instant, really—that changed me. It pierced my very being, and yet I was too unaware, too closed off, to recognize it as an invitation to open my heart to an ever-expanding love. I held that feeling, that knowing quietly inside instead.

The six of us were sitting at a table waiting for our meal to be served. Margaret and I were sitting across from each other when she reached out and touched my hand. In that small, gentle gesture, love passed between us—wordless yet unmistakable—speaking volumes of her love for Gary, her son, and of all the happiness she wished for us.

I never told her. I never told her how her simple touch—a touch filled with love—has carried me through the rest of my days. I didn’t mean to withhold and yet I did.

I didn’t come from a loving family and I was able to recognize love and I never told her. A simple touch. Love.

There are people in our lives that shape us in ways that stay with us forever, leaving an indelible mark on our hearts. Margaret was one of those people. I didn’t even know to tell her how that moment, that touch, filled my heart in a way that I had never felt from a parent.

Gary’s mother was quiet, reserved. She vacuumed the carpet in a dress and heels. When the family dog, Ginger, ran off, she was distressed at the possibility that Ginger might have found a male companion. She cared for elderly family members in her home without a word of complaint, even though she herself was no longer young. She volunteered in the gift shop at the local hospital.

The mother of four, she sat back and watched with love when we all gathered, content as the rest of the family carried on with their antics. There was an adventurous side to her too—she enjoyed traveling, meeting people, and seeing the world beyond the familiar. What I remember most about her—she loved her family fiercely.

She underwent two hip replacement surgeries, and while she was recovering, I sent her small gifts in the mail every day. It was important to me—to imagine that in some small way, I might be putting a smile on her face. And yet, over the years, I never thought to reach out and say the simple words: I love you. Thank you for being in my life. I know we would have been great friends.

Many years later, we were back in Euclid, Ohio where I saw her for the last time. She had dementia and would be going to an assisted living facility. On this day we were sitting in the living room waiting for Mother to finish dressing and join us. She walked down the hall from the bedroom and as she entered the living room, she turned, saw me, and said, “Hi Shelly.” “Hi Mother.”

I didn’t know to say, “Hi Mother, you are so loved, I love you.” How is that possible?

In my play I used those words—“How is it possible that I didn’t…”

I don’t beat myself up, I accept. I know that Mother knew I loved her. And I admit, I still wish someone—someone wiser about expressing love, had encouraged me to reach out to her, to tell her in words, how deeply she touched my life.

I close with a wish: Reach out to someone and let them know you love them, even if they already know. Tell them again. Tell them how they have touched your life. Don’t miss an opportunity to share love, to spread love. Don’t withhold—open your heart. Thank you for receiving this offering of quiet tenderness today.

Mother, Margaret, died on March 13, 2005 at the age of 89. I know she is still holding my hand and I am holding hers.