When reading, my mother likes to slice a paragraph or a sentence out and attach it to the wall of her kitchen. She picks boring sentences that puzzle me. But I prefer copying favorite bright lines into a journal in soft, gray No. 2 pencil, word by word.

She doesn’t know any of this. There's nothing shocking: for our chatting. we seldom begin certain conversations though we talk on the phone weekly, sometimes making each other laugh so hard that I choke and she cries. But what we don't say could fill up rooms. Fights with my father. Small failures in school. Anything that really upsets us.

My mother has never told me “I love you, Lisa.”—as if the four-word absence explains who I am—so I carry it with me, like a label on me. The last time she almost spoke the words was two years ago, when she called to tell me a friend had been in hospital. I said, “I love you, Mom.” She stopped for a while and then said, “Thank you.” I haven't said it since, but I've wondered why my mother doesn't until I've found a poem that supplies words for the blank spaces I try to understand in our conversations:

Don’t fill up on bread. I say absent-mindedly. The servings here are huge.

My son, middle-aged, says: Did you really just say that to me?

What he doesn’t know is that when we’re walking together, I desire to reach for his hand.

It's humble, yet heartbreaking. After copying it down in my journal, I emailed it to mom, adding “This poem makes me think of you.” My mother doesn’t read poetry—or at least, she doesn’t tell me, and I felt nervous clicking “Send”.

She never mentioned the poem. But the next time I went home for vacation, I noticed something new in the kitchen fixed to an antique board: the poem. The board hung above the heater, the warmest spot in the kitchen. The poem still hangs there. Neither my mother nor I have ever spoken about it.

When my father was getting ready for work, our house was ruled by knocks and words.

He used to come downstairs to breakfast.

The morning paper lay beside his plate. He always read the ''Deaths'' first, and then he knocked once on the table. One of my sisters brought his bread, already buttered for him. Usually he said nothing, but once I heard him say, ''I love you very much, Edith. I would love more if you buttered my bread on both sides. '' He read the paper all through breakfast.

Two knocks on the table meant ''I am ready for my tea. '' If a single knock followed that meant, ''More bread, please. ''

After breakfast he said, ''Boots. '' The paper was spread (展开) for him over the back of an arm-chair. Yesterday's paper was put on the chair for his feet, and his boots were brought to him, freshly cleaned. He read standing at the same time putting on his boots. With one boot finished he said, ''Bus. '' At that point one of the girls went outside to the garden gate and waited there. Her job was to stop a bus when it came. It came early sometimes and it had to wait for my father. ''Overcoat, hat. '' One of my sisters had already brushed his overcoat. Now she held it open for him. Another girl came with his hat, nicely brushed. ''Handkerchief, pipe (烟斗). '' They were brought and put, with his tobacco (烟草), into his pocket. He looked out of the window and said either ''Walking stick'' or ''Umbrella''. It was handed to him. Ready now, he was still reading the paper. He didn't put it down until he heard the shout ''Bus coming! '' Then he kissed my mother and went out. The girls breathed freely.

How lucky a man was to have a wife and five daughters at home!

My cellphone rang while I was working on my computer. I looked at the phone and saw it was my 17-year-old son, Tom. I quickly picked it up. “Mom, I got a 71 on the test. I did it.” With those few words, I could feel staudented in my heart.

Living in New York State, students cannot graduate from high school unless they pass at least five exams: one in English, one in science, two in history and one in math. For most students, who work hard, attend class, and do their homework, it isn’t that hard. But for Tom, who is dyslexic(朗读困难的), it is such a real challenge that some teachers have feared that Tom would never be able to even attempt, never mind achieve.

We were honest with him about his trouble, letting him know that there was nothing to be ashamed of. Some people learn differently. If he was willing to work, we would help him find a way to do as much as he could in his academic career. All that was standing in his way was this math test. He had taken it three times and did better each time, but he continued to fail. He was starting to get a bit tired of me saying this was a marathon(马拉松) not a sprint(冲刺). My heart broke each time we would get the failing results.

“Mom, thanks. I love you. Thanks for believing I could do this.”

For one of the few times in my life, I really had nothing to say. For that one brief moment I knew, really, really, knew that everything we did was worth it.