There comes a moment when love stops being about the future and begins to speak only in farewells.
It doesn’t announce itself. It arrives slowly, in fragments. A breath that takes longer to come back. A hand that doesn’t rise as easily. A conversation that drifts, then lingers in silence. And somewhere in that silence, a shift: love is no longer a promise of what will come. It becomes a final conversation.
That’s what happened between Gilles Chagnon and his mother.
The Words You Say When There’s Nothing Left to Say
In My Mother, My Love, My Child, Chagnon doesn’t fill the space with grand declarations. He doesn’t dramatise. He listens. He sits by her bedside. He warms her hands. He tells her she is beautiful. He thanks her—for life, for memory, for being.
And she answers, in the language that only final days allow: slow, hoarse, careful. “I’m here also. Always with you.” It’s not just a reply. It’s a legacy. A final, quiet thread binding son to mother, even as she begins to slip away.
In the end, the most important words are often the simplest. I love you. I’m here. Thank you. Goodbye.
What Remains When Everything Else Begins to Fade
There comes a point when even conversation itself falls away. When the voice falters. When the eyelids close. When the presence becomes harder to reach—but not entirely gone.
And yet, the conversation continues. It moves inward. Chagnon speaks to her as she sleeps. He watches her breath. He writes. He writes because the body is fading but the bond remains, vivid and luminous.
The final conversation is not always spoken aloud. Sometimes, it’s written. Sometimes, it’s carried in silence.
Not About Closure
We often imagine final conversations as neat, cinematic things. As if the end will arrive with clarity, resolution, peace. But love rarely works that way. It is messier. More fragile. And somehow, more honest.
There are unfinished sentences. There are jokes that turn to tears. There are long silences where both people understand everything without needing to explain. Chagnon doesn’t seek to “complete” anything. He simply stays. Present. Attentive. Loving.
That, too, is a conversation.
Staying Behind, Carrying Forward
After she is gone, he still talks to her. He cooks her favorite meals. He sets the table for two. He listens to the music she loved. The final conversation doesn’t end with death. It deepens.
And this, perhaps, is the heart of the book: that love does not vanish. It becomes something quieter. Something internal. A presence shaped by absence. A conversation without sound, but still alive in memory, gesture, and breath.
We will all, at some point, face this kind of love. The kind that must learn to let go, even as it clings to what matters most. The kind that doesn’t fix or rescue or preserve, but simply is. Honest. Exhausted. Radiant.
When the time comes, we may find that we are not prepared. But maybe, if we’ve listened well, if we’ve learned to pay attention, we’ll know what to say. Or when to be silent.
And maybe that will be enough.
Read My Mother, My Love, My Child by Gilles Chagnon, now on Amazon.