just say it

I found an old photo tucked into an envelope, among many photos, next to my mom's chair in her living room. I knew that one of the men in the photo was my dad looking to the side, at his two first-born children, my sister Chris and my brother John D.

"Who is this sitting with Dad, holding Chris and John?" I asked my mom, pointing to the picture.
"Oh. That is Ray, your grandpa. Your dad's dad," she stated as a matter-of-fact.
"Ah, so that is what he looks like," I said, interested. Grandpa Ray died before I came around so I had never met him, only heard his name mentioned.

"When your dad and I were first married Ray gave me some earrings," she reflected. "He had been hiking up in Denver when he found some black pebbles. Well, he picked up those pebbles, and later had them made into a one-of-a-kind pair of earrings for me."

"He must have really liked you?" I questioned.
"I think so. He did give me earrings for no reason. But, he never said that he liked me. I just assumed he did."
"He must have liked you quite a bit to have gone to all the trouble of having those earrings crafted for you," I commented.
"Well, you know, people just don't tell you they like you, do they? I don't know why," my 91 year old mom said, quizzically.

Quietly.
Reflectively.

I left that evening telling my mom I love her, and that I really like her, and that I am glad she's my mom.

She laughed. Then I hugged her goodbye.