Every birthday, my grandma Elizabeth gave me an old postcard. While other kids received money or presents, I got a faded picture with a few lines written on the back. I would frown, thank her, and put it away without reading it closely. She died when I was 17, and I thought those postcards were long gone.
Twenty years later, I returned to my childhood home and found a jar holding all 17 of them. I turned one over and froze. Grandma had written a small poem about me—about things I’d done and said that year, moments I hadn’t even realized she’d noticed. Each postcard held another piece of my childhood, along with gentle advice for the person I would become.
I sat there reading until I was in tears. The gifts I once dismissed had become a record of how closely she’d loved me through every year of my life. I took the postcards home and hung them on my wall, where I can read her words whenever I miss her.
Thank you, Granny Elizabeth. I love you.
