Endearment - Nov 27 2020

 

Endearment

Nov 27 2020

We weren't the kind of family

where parents were called

by their first names.

But my mother, who is Freda, has nevertheless

always been “Dear,”

which must seem normal only to us.

My dad would call her this

home for dinner

after a long day at work,

and the first born son

who was a precocious child

would mimic his endearment

and soon it stuck.

Nor were we the kind of family

who ever talked about love,

or found even the word

comfortable.

There were no kisses and hugs

no casual touch

no easy “I love you's”

passing between us.

No exploring of depths

instead of boundaries.

Yet this word persists

in all its inexplicable intimacy,

so familiar

we no longer hear it.

In-laws and friends

all call her Freda,

and mouthing the sound

as I type this out

makes her seem like a stranger to me

whom I've never really known.

Which may be closer to the truth

than the “Dear”

I speak to on the phone.

Perhaps now, even more unknowable

as dementia takes over

and she recedes even further away.

It will be Freda on her headstone, not “Dear”

when the day finally comes.

As if a distant relation

had been buried at my father's side,

someone whose company I might have enjoyed

if we all had been born

a generation later.

At a time

when hugs come more easily

and words less self-consciously,

and a heartfelt “Dear”

can be given unstintingly

and mean exactly what it says.

I'm inordinately proud of my brothers for raising their families very differently. They are both very involved with their children's lives, unselfconscious about being touchy-feely with them, and have no trouble with emotional expressiveness and “I love you's”. This is a generational thing. But I think also a conscious decision to reinvent fatherhood, and then pass it on. (I'm unmarried and have no kids, but am unstinting with my dogs. Not sure if that counts, though!)

We can't even talk on the phone anymore. We can, but it's frustrating and useless: her memory is poor, hearing often worse. Many adult children get to know their parents as people. I doubt I ever will. Even more disturbing is that it also works in the other direction. It's difficult to accept that you are not well understood by someone who should be among your most intimate and life-long relationships.