Growing up, my grandma gave me just one old postcard each year for my birthday. I’d always roll my eyes, disappointed. She passed away when I was 17.
Twenty years later, at 37, I visited my childhood home and found a jar containing all 17 postcards. Curious, I flipped one over—and froze. It wasn’t just a simple card. Each one held a short poem she’d written about me, filled with memories and reflections from that year, along with advice for my future self.
Suddenly, I understood—those postcards were the most meaningful gift she could’ve given. If she had given me money or presents, they would’ve disappeared long ago. But her words? They’ve stayed with me.
I took them home and hung them on my wall. Today, they’re among my most cherished possessions. Thank you, Grandma Elizabeth. I love you.
