I had a box of crayons when I was small, and I would draw on whatever was handy, scraps of paper floating around my room. My mother would find them later, wedged into the pile of the bedroom carpet or cast into corners. I drew faces mostly, when I drew shapes at all - always a girl with one eye full of tears. But more often than faces, I left small folds of paper, guileless declarations, "I love Mommy" in every color in every corner of my tiny little world.
My wonderful parents sold their house today, and soon they'll move far away. I know that home is not a building - my home travels wherever the people I love go - but it's hard to remember when I think of this house, the most beautiful one I've had or even seen. Mom and Dad bought it when I was in college; I didn't grow up there, none of my defining memories happened there. It was simply a place of comfort and happiness. It was proof that no matter how old I get, no matter where my mail goes, I can still go to a place that's more home than my own home. I am someone's little girl within the walls of my parents' house.
My bedroom isn't next to my mom's anymore, and it probably won't ever be again. She'll never clean my room and find the scraps of paper hidden under laundry and clutter. I don't think scribbling "I love Mommy" in crayon would have the same unconscious sincerity at 29 as it did at six.
This is the best I can do. I don't think she reads my site very often, but when she does, she'll find this here, the sort of folded note I can still leave with the greatest sincerity.
I love Mommy.