I still mother them….

The Language of Love

I was thinking this morning about my mom and my grandmother and how much of who I am came from those two women.

My mom was sick from the time I was seven years old. I celebrated proms and homecomings in the hospital with her. I studied for tests sitting in her hospital room. So much of my childhood was spent with my mom being sick, and every single time she pulled out of it.

She always got better.

I watched her receive last rites more times than I can even remember, and then she would get better again. I think after a while I just believed that was what my mom did. She got sick, sometimes really, really sick, and then she came home.

Until the last time.

She died when I was 23.

Her father had died long before I was born, and she frequently talked about how much she missed him. My grandmother never remarried after he died. She always said he was the love of her life and nobody could ever replace him.

My grandmother died when I was 16, almost 17, and God, I miss her.

She was the very first person I ever drove in the car I got for my 16th birthday. I can still remember that.

She would be 124 years old right now. LOL.

Sometimes I wonder what she would think about the world we live in today. What would she think about AI? What would she think about microwaves and cell phones and the internet and all of the other millions of things that have been invented since she was here?

And I REALLY wonder what she would think about bra commercials. LOL.

We frequently laughed about things like that. I remember the first time she saw a bra on a mannequin and her reaction to it. I can only imagine what she would have to say about the things that are on television today.

I would give anything to sit next to her and hear it.

And then I think about my mom and wonder what she would think about everything she missed.

I wonder what she would think about Gianna.

I wonder what she would think about Adriano.

I know she would have loved those two fiercely because I saw how much she loved Kelly and Miles. There isn’t even a question in my mind about that. She would have absolutely adored Gianna and Adriano.

But I wonder what their relationships would have looked like.

I wonder what she would think about Gianna and who she has become. I wonder what the two of them would talk about. I wonder what Gianna would tell her that she probably wouldn’t tell me. LOL.

I wonder what she would think about Adriano. I wonder what things they would do together and what little things about him she would absolutely love.

I think that’s one of the hardest parts about losing someone so young. You don’t only miss the person you knew. You miss all the years you were supposed to have with them and all the people they were supposed to know.

My mom never got to meet Gianna and Adriano.

And Gianna and Adriano never got to know her.

I really hate that.

And then my mind goes to my grandmother and Vincent.

I wonder about the conversations those two had when Vincent got to heaven.

God, I would love to hear those conversations.

Especially about cooking.

Because the language of love in my family has always been cooking.

That’s how we love people.

We feed them.

Somebody is sick? You cook.

Somebody is sad? You cook.

Somebody is coming over? You cook enough for 25 people even though six are coming.

Somebody tells you they’re not hungry? That’s nice. Eat anyway. LOL.

That’s just how it was.

And Vincent was the same way about food. He loved to cook. He loved to eat. He loved talking about food and God knows he had an opinion about how everything should be made.

So I wonder what those two talked about.

I wonder if they compared recipes.

I wonder if they argued about how something was supposed to be made.

I wonder if he told her about my chicken and dumplings.

I wonder what she cooked for him.

Actually, I don’t wonder if she cooked for him.

I know she did.

And I know he ate it. LOL.

But more than anything, I wonder what they talked about when they talked about me.

Because they knew two completely different versions of me.

My grandmother knew the little girl and the teenager. She knew the 16-year-old me who was so excited to have her first car and put her grandmother in the passenger seat.

Vincent knew me as his mom.

They never knew each other here.

And for some reason I find myself thinking about that a lot.

I wonder if he told her about the woman that little girl became.

I wonder if she told him stories about me that he had never heard.

I wonder if they compared notes.

God help me if those two compared notes. LOL.

I don’t know exactly what heaven looks like or how any of this works. I don’t know if the conversations I imagine really happen.

But I like thinking that the people we love somehow find each other.

I like thinking that my grandmother finally got to see the love of her life again.

I like thinking that my mom got to see the father she spent so much of her life missing.

And I really like thinking that somewhere along the way my grandmother found Vincent.

And I’m pretty sure she fed him.

Because in my family, the language of love has always been cooking.

Sometimes I love you is chicken and dumplings.

Sometimes it’s, “Did you eat?”

Sometimes it’s, “Take some home with you.”

Sometimes it’s standing in the kitchen making somebody’s favorite thing simply because you know how much they love it.

And sometimes it’s standing in that same kitchen years later thinking about all of the people you wish were still sitting at your table.

I miss them so very much.

And this morning I find myself wondering about all of them.

What they would think about this crazy world.

What they would think about all of us.

What they’re doing.

What they’re cooking.

And what they’re talking about.

And for some reason, I really hope they’re talking about me. ❤️