French la Vie

My Godmother Mary has always had a way of lighting up the room before she even steps into it.
Her home, once brimming with color and curious little things, felt like walking into a story. Every corner whispered charm, a kind of order that could only come from chaos lovingly arranged. You never left her house empty-handed—not with objects, though there were always plenty of those—but with something unspoken tucked under your arm: a sense of being known, heard, nourished. Her words had weight and softness. It wasn’t advice so much as a lantern in the fog.

This year, I was finally able to see her again. Time has changed her body, slowed her steps, but it hasn’t touched what matters. She now lives in a care home, far from the house that once held all those layers of her life. I asked if she missed it. She shook her head gently and said, “No.”

There was no sadness in her answer—only truth. She still holds everything that made that house special inside her. She doesn’t need the walls or the collection of treasures. Mary carries her essence with her. She always has.

We’ve both changed, of course. Life reshapes us all. But what stays—what remains—is how she makes me feel. Even now, when I hug her, I feel the same sense I did as a child: safe, seen, loved.

It’s not easy to grow older. It asks more of us. But in her, I see a grace that refuses to dim. It humbles me. Reminds me what kind of person I want to be.