Mom and Dad were never the hoo-ha types. They were quiet homebodies. They didn't socialize. They had each other and that was enough. Yes, they had us, too, but there was something very private and off-limits in their relationship. They didn't talk about the details of their disagreements. Presenting a united front to us was their mission, and they achieved it.
Looking back, my folks celebrated their love in small ways. She made his favorite dinners. He helped with the dishes. When I was little, my Dad worked down the street from the Whitman Candy Company. From time to time, he brought home a Whitman Sampler for my mom. Which she shared with us. A little. Alone in the kitchen, my mom would giggle and say things like, "Tony, stop that!" We'd yell from the living room, "What's going on in there?" and they'd reply in unison, "Nothing." Occasionally, my dad would add, "Mind your own business."
When my mom talked about my dad, she'd get a dreamy, far-away look in her eye. The one time she attempted to have "the talk" with me, all she would say is, "When you truly love the person you're with, it's wonderful." Then she sighed and changed the subject.
Like most men of his generation, my dad was not touchy-feely. He did not talk about his feelings for my mom. I didn't know until after he died that he sang "You Are My Sunshine" to my mom every night before they fell asleep.
My father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. For the last eight years of his life, my mom took care of him, even when he didn't recognize her anymore. And after he died, she was certain he visited her at night. I believed her. I don't think anything, even death, could keep those two apart. Now I feel both of them as I sit here and type. How I wish I could sit at their kitchen table one more time and talk and tease and laugh and watch my own son play on the floor with the toys I enjoyed as a child.
I sure do miss you guys. Happy Anniversary! Have a caramel cream for me!
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