Habari gani? Happy Kwanzaa. I wanted to put this on paper so you can keep it and read it whenever you need a reminder of how much you are loved.
When I think about home, I think about you in the middle of a kitchen full of people, cooking for a crowd as if it were the easiest thing in the world. You make everyone feel they have a place at the table. I think that is your real gift. The food is wonderful, but the feeling of being welcome is what stays with me.
I love our karamu feast, Mom. I love all of us crowded together, chopping and stirring and laughing, with you at the center of it. Gospel music fills the house, and I can hear you humming along, and for a little while the whole world feels safe and warm. That is what you built for us. It is a place to come in out of the cold.
I am so proud of you for starting the community garden on our block. Of course you did. You saw a patch of ground and imagined it feeding and gathering your neighbors. You are strong in the quiet way that helps other people grow. I think of you every time I walk past it.
You are the one everyone calls, and I know that can be heavy. You are generous with your time, your ear and your heart. So this week I want you to be held a little, the way you hold all of us. Sit down. Let someone else stir the pot. Let your book club friends and your family wrap around you the way you have always wrapped around them.
Thank you for everything you have taught me about family, community and showing up. I am more myself because of you.
You are loved, Mom, always and without conditions, exactly as you are. Wherever I go, I carry your kitchen and your home with me, and I will always be near you.
