April 12

He wrote me notes, little ones, on scraps of paper, coloured with crayon pencils. The colours changed, the spellings were sometimes fractured, they were often written in haste or in hurry. It always said one thing and he never seemed to tire himself of confessing it. I would note how in some of the notes, the last word would trail off over the edges, like he had miscalculated the space it would require to write those four words. And somehow he would try and accommodate a doodle in there. It was fascinating how he would hand the note over to me in my hand but run away to hide for he was too shy to watch me read it—he was ready to bare his heart to me but was reluctant to see how I might respond. What if I didn’t smile after reading it, what if I put it aside as if it was just another piece of paper? He had his fears but it never stopped him from trying to know how much space I would take up in his little heart, how he could enrich everyday moments with his love that was always overwhelming overflowing, whether I loved him beyond compare or loved him at all, or from writing me those notes that always read one thing—I love you Ma.

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