Let Me Count the Ways

There are all kinds of ways that families express love for one another without saying it.

Some say it with cooking or worrying or frequent texts or phone calls.

Some say it with gifts, or with cleaning

My mom, like her mom before her, says it with stream-of-consciousness notes scrawled on both sides of the page and up and down the margins (and sometimes an extra scrap tucked in the envelope), which she drops in the mailbox while walking the dogs.

My dad, although it took me a long time to learn to hear it, says it with a tank full of gas, a clandestine test drive of my vehicle before I wake up, and a cautionary tale about that Indy 500 that Mario Andretti lost because a harmonic vibration blew up his engine in the last tenth of the race.

My brother says it with unexpected tidbit memories from our childhood, inside jokes that weren’t until right now, and my heart is full.

I mostly say it with links. Links and links and links. The Metropolitan Museum of Butts or the WaPo cover photo that looks like an impressionist painting or long lost Nazi photo albums or the trailer of Mrs. Doubtfire cut to look like a horror movie or Carole King and James Taylor live on the BBC.

By these I mean, everything I read makes me think of you. I want to share with you what I’m laughing at and thinking about and hear what you have to say about it.

But I’m not sure this comes through.


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