Dearest Nanna,
I know you will never read this.
That’s ok.
I’ve no doubt you feel my eternal love and gratitude for your presence in my life.
I will keep this short.
You hate things that are not direct.
Thank you for mothering such a damaged soul as mine back to life.
I am alive because of you.
I am well because of you.
I keep going because of you.
You found me when I came to Northwestern High School smelling like urine and beer.
Dirty from sleeping in an alley near Monument Street in Baltimore.
The kids ridiculed me in the hallway.
The teachers turned their backs, went in their rooms, and closed the door.
You told me to go sit in your class.
From that day to this, I do what you say.
Happy Mother’s Day, Nanna.
I know you will never read this.
I know you don’t want anything from me for any holiday.
I know you love me as God does.
Just as I am: flawed, bruised, and broken.
And that is enough.
Your love, then and now, heals me.
You keep me alive on so many levels.
May you feel my boundless love Nanna.
Each time I say thank you for saving my life, you brush it to the side—too embarrassed to accept my gratitude.
Uncomfortable with my tears.
It’s ok.
So I’ll tell you here, on this white blank page that I fill with shapes that make up letters, sentence, and paragraphs you will never read…
…you are my Mother.
You are my confidante.
You are my safe space.
You are my home.
And while it’s not your way to receive any sort of thanks from me in any form, I live my life as a living testimony of your love.
Your life-saving love.
I love you Nanna.
Right now, as you sit in the living room, on the other side of this door, me writing words you will never read, never hear…
…may God in heaven whisper in your heart every bit of love, thanks, and gratitude I have for you for saving a wretch like me…
Happy Mother’s Day, Nanna.
With all the love my heart can hold…
Your daughter,
Venus
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