The Power Of ‘I Am Sorry’

This is pretty much what I did as we sat down to the supper of turkey loaf and instant mashed potatoes that my father put on the table almost the moment we walked in the door. Over supper, he briefed me on deaths, births and family estrangements. By dessert we were caught up. Over the next two years, I visited frequently.

Had I waited any longer to reconcile with my mother, she would not have known who I was, or cared that I had returned. As it was, I had a chance to apologize, to go on walks with her, to admire her purple velvet wedding dress from 1937 and to have many other turkey-loaf suppers. As her Alzheimer's progressed she became argumentative, then mute and, worse for my father, incontinent. He asked me not to visit during this time, and his terse letters chronicled more and more serious "Mom is about the same" news.

Months later, she died. I came as soon as my father called to help him with funeral plans. I sat with him as he typed out my mother's death notice on his ancient Royal typewriter. We picked out the clothes she would be buried in: a print shirt, slacks and the locket he'd given her when they were engaged 64 years before. We sat next to each other on folding chairs at the small-town cemetery and watched my mother's casket lowered into the ground.

Eighteen months later, my father died. During that time we had many more visits—nights out at the local Chinese restaurant with his grandchildren, hearing his stories about the Depression, about playing in jazz bands and running a five-and-dime store. We talked about my mother and his grief. He told me about taking an urn full of artificial flowers to the cemetery. He liked making my mother's grave prettier.

Every year I visit the cemetery where my parents are buried. I tend the hostas I planted to replace my father's artificial flowers and scatter thistle seeds to attract the finches they loved to watch. When I leave, I kiss the top of their headstone. I say goodbye and I feel happy. I feel part of my family.

The irony doesn't escape me. Here I am tending the grave site of parents whom I iced for 12 years. Oddly, I don't feel regret. I feel grateful. My father's three words saved me from being an orphan. Maybe there are other members of the grudge-holding culture who might listen to my story and make the move. It's not too late.

Wilberg lives in Milwaukee.

© 2008