Hey everyone,
I rarely post anything deeply personal, but there’s something I feel I need to share. Maybe it’s this digital world’s way of connecting with people I haven’t seen in years that gives me the courage. Or perhaps it’s just time. I don’t know, but here goes.
Last week, as I was clearing out my attic, I stumbled upon a small, dusty box with my name neatly penned in my grandmother’s handwriting. It was tucked away in the corner under piles of old blankets and forgotten memories. You know, the kind of box you pass over a hundred times without really seeing it. I almost didn’t open it. Just another thing to toss, I thought. But something in me stopped.
Inside, wrapped in layers of delicate tissue paper, was a silk ribbon. It was an old, pale blue ribbon, frayed at the edges, with a faint scent of lavender. As I held it, memories flooded back – my grandmother tying it around my hair, her gentle hands smoothing my braids when I was just a kid. But what really took me aback was the small, folded note tucked under it.
The note was in my mother’s handwriting. Shaky and faded, it read, ‘For my little star, when the time is right.’ I couldn’t understand why, but the words tugged fiercely at something deep inside me.
I sat there, clutching the ribbon, as a wave of emotions washed over me. Memories I hadn’t thought of in years came rushing back. Sundays spent in the garden learning about daisies, my mother’s laughter as she twirled around the kitchen, and her voice singing softly as she tucked me in at night.
Yet, amidst these warm memories was a sense of loss. A void. A truth I had always avoided confronting. I remember the silences. The days when all that was left of her was a shadow sitting in her favorite armchair, staring at nothing. For a long time, I blamed myself for those silences, never understanding why she would retreat into herself.
I sat with that ribbon, the note, and my memories for what seemed like hours. And then I realized – it wasn’t my fault. It never was. The sudden emptiness I felt as a child, the emotional distance I perceived, had nothing to do with my actions or words. It was her struggle, her battles with the demons she never spoke of.
The note, scrawled with love and intention, was her way of saying she knew. She anticipated a time when I’d need to understand, when I’d need closure. And maybe, just maybe, she hoped this small gesture would bring it.
The realization was both heartbreaking and liberating. I cried that day, alone in my attic, for the little girl who never understood why she couldn’t reach her mother, and for the woman who finally forgave herself for being too hard on the child she once was.
So here I am, sharing this with you, hoping it resonates with anyone who might be struggling with their own hidden truths or the echoes of their past. The past doesn’t define us; it shapes us, teaches us, but doesn’t have to be our future.
I’m tying this ribbon around my wrist now, wearing it as a reminder that love, even when unspoken, is still love. That understanding comes in its own time. And that sometimes, we have to dig through the dusty corners of our own lives to find the truths that set us free.
Thank you for reading. I hope you find your own ribbon someday.
