Just before I moved to New York in 2006 — at least a lifetime and a half ago — my mom slipped a big, dark-blue envelope into my carry-on. I found it after I got to the airport. It was heavy and thick, filled with huge prints of her and my stepdad, my sister's senior pictures and some photos of us as a family. And a note.
Do these things for me:
- Always remember you are loved
- Always remember where home is
- Always remember you can come home anytime — no questions
- You can call any time, day or night
- Always remember we are all proud of you
I miss you terribly and adore you beyond your wildest imagination. Enjoy this adventure — don't forget home and us.
I never have. Not for a single second.
I'm doing some spring cleaning today: not just shuffling things around but actually throwing them out. I found her envelope today in a box of things I plan to throw out. Five and a half years after she wrote it, I smile to think that I don't need that note to know what it says is true.