As a child, I’d roll my eyes when my grandma gave me a single old postcard for my birthday. She passed when I was 17. At 37, I returned to my childhood home and found a jar with her 17 postcards. Turning one over, I froze—they were her heartfelt messages, written for my future. Each card held wisdom, love, and memories, as if she knew I’d need her guidance later in life. Tears fell as I read her words, feeling her presence again. I regretted my youthful dismissal;
those postcards were her way of staying with me. Now, I keep them close, rereading them when life feels heavy. They’re a reminder of her quiet love—a gift I didn’t understand until she was gone. I wish I could thank her, but instead, I honor her by sharing her lessons with my own children, ensuring her love lives on through us.
