I love words. I always have, though I have a strange relationship with them. Sometimes, they flow from me like blood from an open wound, trickles and rivers and puddles of me spilling against pages and screens and ears, open and closed alike. Sometimes, they clot together in the back of my throat or the tips of my fingers and I just can’t get them out or twist them together in a way that satisfies me. But still, I have them and they have me and I love them. But sometimes, I wound myself in search of them, tearing through heart and mind and soul, willing them to come pouring out of me before I realize they’re just not there.
Though I have searched and scoured and—quite literally—wracked my brain for words to describe what it is to know my mother, I have yet to find the ones to do it justice.
All I have are these:
Mama, you are my best friend. Thank you for loving me so much and so well that it breaks my heart to leave you, for always reminding me how beautiful I am (and it must be true if people think I look like you), and for being patient with me these last few weeks and for the entirety of my life. You are my home; how lucky am I to spend forever with you. I’ll be back soon.
I love you.
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) – e.e. cummings
