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.
