Every time I leave you, I'm afraid you won't remember me. I know I'm not the best godmother I could be, but I pray for you daily–a sort of endless prayer, like breathing. I write you letters and imagine you listening to the words as your mom reads them, and I hope they make you happy.
I've always been away from you, and I've always struggled to figure out how I could make my role as godmother a larger part of both of our lives. I love hearing stories about you, and I love coming home for your birthdays and holidays and cookouts and play dates. I love hearing your voice change–the biggest sign that you're growing up is the leaps your voice and vocabulary take when I get to steal minutes on the phone with you.
I love the Christmas card you made me and the notes you've written me. I love thinking that in half a year, I'll be a few hours from your small hands, making crafts and typing on capes, instead of a world away. We'll have visits and decorate cookies and hold conversations and chase birds around the yard and make fun of Joe.
I love you, and if I turn out to be any kind of respectable adult in the World, know that you played a part in it. You're such a cool kid, and I can't wait to be with you as you turn into a really cool person. It's inevitable; it runs in the family.
Loads of love colored like a rainbow and being galloped on by a unicorn,
Meg
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