I wish I would have mastered the art of letter writing before my godmother passed away a few years ago. There are only two people in this world who truly understand me, and she was one of them. I’m sorting out a lot of things in my life right now, and tonight, while driving around, her presence overcame me.
In the few years before her sudden death, I hadn’t made many trips to Buffalo to see her. I was working and putting myself through school. The situations in my life were a little different from when I was attending Kent State, and I would skip class and drive to see her; I needed her. She was a great source of comfort and she would always make a point to tell me she loved me. I never heard “I love you” unless it was coming from her, and I always felt ashamed that my reciprocation was timid. I never flat out told her, “I love you,” at least not boldly or expectantly or even believably. I love you’s should be meant. And I did mean it, but storms in my life made the words “I love you” seem like a tool I was unprepared for or didn’t know how to use correctly.
I don’t regret many things, but I regret not calling my godmother and boldly proclaiming my love for her. She always looked out for me, and she was always willing and able to protect me—she understood.
I’m not great at audibly expressing my emotions, but I do know that words heal. I write because I have to. I write because understanding me is a task best explained with the written word. My heart is most open, most receptive when I can draw a map of my emotions through words.
There are so many things I want to tell my godmother, but most of all that I miss her dearly. I’m not so afraid to say “I love you” anymore, and it saddens me that she is not around to see that transformation, or experience it for herself. If she were alive, I’d write her a letter. I’d tell her how much she meant to me and how she epitomized what love really is. I have never been loved so greatly and so openly, and it’s something that can never be recreated.
Tonight, I am missing my godmother.