My grandma would only give me one old postcard for my birthdays.
I would frown and roll my eyes.
I was 17 when she di:ed. When I was 37,
I went to my childhood home and found
a jar with her 17 postcards. I turned one and froze.
It was not just a random postcard.
She had written a small poem about me,
filled with specific details from that year of my life.
Some were sweet little observations;
others were pieces of advice for my “future self.”
I realized those were actually
the most precious gift that I could’ve ever hoped for.
If she had given me money or material things,
they’d be long gone by now.
But her words? They’ll stay with me forever,
I took them home and hung them on my wall.
Now, they’re one of my most treasured possessions.
Thank you,
Granny Elizabeth… I love you.
