To the Most Beautiful Woman I’ve Ever Seen: Love Doesn’t End Here
You stood in front of me in your brown velvet tracksuit as you embraced your daughter one last time. Your eyes brimmed with glassy tears as you turned to me and said, ”She almost died last year. She’s still having symptoms. Keep in in your prayers, will you?”
I told you we could pray right then if you’d like, but then the security line lurched forward and you ended up in the opposite lane, us trying to talk through the ropes, while your daughter, carved straight from fine porcelain, stood just outside security and mouthed, “I love you, Mom. You’re gate 121.”
You danced and swayed about. You told me with great sadness in your voice you were headed to Indiana. I heard it in your pause, the fear you’d never see her again. The one who’d been carved in porcelain strained her body forward to watch you as long as she could. The love you shared was palpable. Who was caring for whom this day? I couldn’t tell.
I kept my eye on you. Making sure you were still dancing and swaying forward, for I’d made a silent oath to your flawless faced offspring to care for you in the space where she could not.
Each time you saw me, your face lit up. You smiled. You pointed over to your daughter. I smiled back, waved to the exotic beauty you’d created. I imagined the kind of Mother you had been to her, the adventures you’d shared. I watched you chatter with those around you and I longed to tell you the things you needed to hear. But what I heard was someone telling me, “Mam, go back, put that lap top in its own bin and stay with your luggage. Make sure it goes through the scanner before you step through.” I complied.
In my attempt to be a good citizen, I lost sight of you. I passed your gate, 121 on the way to mine, 124. It was leaving for Indianapolis soon, but you were nowhere to be found. Were you okay? Had I failed your flawless beauty?
I’d wanted to find you and tell you something, but I never did.
I don’t know if you made it to Indiana. I’m not sure what symptoms your beauty of a daughter is having, but here’s what I wanted to tell you:
My friend in the velvet tracksuit, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. You’re igniting this airport with your light and your love. We can all see it and feel it today.
Did you know I almost died last year?
I didn’t know it at first.
Strange, isn’t it?
This thing happened. I can’t say for sure how many days in a row. You’d think I’d remember a detail like that, but I don’t.
You see, one night, I got this rash and so quickly thereafter I spiked the highest fever I’d had in ten years and then it was like barbed wire around my chest. I knew something was very very wrong. It did feel like my body was trying to kill me, but I didn’t know that’s what was actually happening until the next day, until it had already been stopped with steroids and a nurse was telling me I could’ve coded in my room.
I thought a lot about what might have happened, what could have happened, about the people I might never see again.
Here’s the thing: Even if you never lay eyes on your daughter again, even if she leaves this world, she leaves knowing you love her. You’ve written it on her heart. Her beauty is far more than skin deep. It’s plain for all to see. You did that. She’s done what you taught her, she’s taken her love and beauty and scattered it.
So, your love, her love, they don’t end here, no matter what. No matter what your body does or her body does, your love does not end here, not in this security line, not in Indiana, not in this lifetime, not in this circumstance.
Love doesn’t end here. It’s multiplied. Because that’s what you do with it, and that’s what you taught her, it’s what you teach others to do by being you.
I hope you made it to Indianapolis.No matter your circumstances today, love doesn’t end here. I just needed you to know. Click To Tweet