What I Wish I Had Told You

When you first sent me to preschool, I cried every single day. At the end of each day, you'd take me home and hold me in your arms as I let out the last tears of the day, and then you’d send me right back the next day. If only I could tell you how much that early experience, your unwavering toughness and trust in my potential, helped shape me into a stronger person. You were never one to give up on me. When I teetered off course, you were always there to brush off the dust and set me back on track. I wish you would do that now, as this great emptiness consumes me.

Back in first grade, a friend gave me a gift of dolls that I despised, and so I promptly shoved them back into her hands. Your disappointed tone of voice, tinged with the flames of anger, as you reprimanded me on the car ride home is still stuck in my head. I accepted gifts graciously after that day. Including gifts from you. You'd say “Merry Christmas” to 10-year-old me and give me a wrapped box. I'd tear through the wrapping paper and open the box to find socks. I’d hide my 10-year-old disappointment behind a polite smile and two simple words of “thank you.” I know better now. I'd show gratitude for those socks that kept my feet warm on cold winter days—those hand-knit socks you made secretly while I was off being a crazy rogue in school, complete with little rubber grips attached to the bottom to ensure I don't slip when I run on our slippery wooden floors wearing them. I'd ask you to teach me how to knit so that I could share such care with my own children.

The day you rushed me to the ER, I couldn’t stop shivering. I still remember your tight lips and your fingers lacing and unlacing as the doctor told you it was pneumonia. I slept in the hospital bed and you watched from the couch. You stayed on that old couch all night. I didn’t realize, then, how uncomfortable you must have been. But you were by my side the whole time, helping me walk to the bathroom every few hours with my IV line and dealing with the daytime television I watched. You held me in your arms when I shrunk away in fear from nurses who approached me with needles, and wiped tears from my face when I cried in pain and frustration. I wish I’d told you thank you. When I finally went home, you caught a cold; the days in the hospital were not kind to you. I’d tell you how comforting your presence was in the scary, needle-filled land of the hospital. I wish I cared for you the same way you cared for me.

When I was an angst-filled teenager, I yelled at you on more than one occasion. You never said a single scathing word back—my own naïve venom was never reciprocated. I'd tell you how much I hated that you would never yell back, but also how much I have come to be in awe of your calm poise. You dealt with me at my worst. You always tried to be at your best. I wish I'd asked you how you did it. 

When I was 16, as a recurring joke, you told me the code words to listen for as indication of approval on the day I brought home my first boyfriend. It wasn't until I was 25 that I brought someone home, because that someone was my girlfriend. But when you said "can you hear the frogs?" regardless, a bubbling joy blossomed in my heart. You were expressionless when asking the question; I almost thought that perhaps there were frogs I should be listening for. But of course not—there were no frogs. The question quietly slipped through the conversation like a feather's quiet descent upon falling from the wing of a bird. But just like how a discovered feather of a rare bird becomes a cherished treasure, I held that simple question in my heart forever. I'd tell you how much that moment meant to me. I'd tell you how prophetic those frogs felt to me. She was the only one I ever brought home—perhaps we would have heard the frogs every time if I had dated more. 

But your frogs were right. You were the first person I showed my flowing white wedding dress with tulip sleeves and a Queen Anne neckline to. I'd tell you how much pride I felt watching your smile grow into a wide, toothy grin. You hated smiling with teeth. You hated when I smiled with teeth too. You thought it made me look goofy. But I'd tell you how wonderful your ear-to-ear grin looked, and how much that smile warmed my heart. 

I called you first when I landed that job I had wanted since 8th grade. At the time, I was so consumed with joy that I didn’t process what it meant—that I’d be starting this chapter of my life 2500 miles away from you. I heard you whoop with joy over the phone and could imagine the toothy grin that must have been on your face when it happened. I’d tell you the longing for home I experienced when I moved away. I’d tell you how much I missed your cooking, and how much much I missed your constant reassuring presence. 

But I didn't call you much. I wish I did. Just one call a week would have been better than what I did. I’d tell you about what I was up to. What worries I had. What the kids were doing. You always wanted grandkids. I'd tell you how much they always cheered when I announced holiday trips across the country to visit you, how much they loved your stories and your knitting in a way I never did. I wish I could listen to all your stories again and appreciate the imagery of an unfamiliar world that a vibrant, youthful you lived in.

I would have moved back earlier, but I spread myself too thin and lost sight of my priorities. You should have been my priority. I should have come back as soon as I heard. I should have understood the fleeting nature of life better. You understood. You always lived to cherish every moment. I'd tell you I finally learned how to from you.

Oh how I wish to hear your voice again, to feel a warm, new pair of knitted socks on my feet or to see your big, toothy grin. I wish I could tell you everything I never told you. But in the little time we had left together, all the words were yours. A quiet whisper. "Have no regrets," you said. I had so many words on the tip of my tongue. 

I didn't have the opportunity to say anything back.