The relationship I had with my grandmother was a mix of frustration and quiet affection. Every year on my birthday, she had one strange tradition: she would only hand me a single, old postcard. At the time, I was a teenager, and receiving such a simple, cheap gift felt like a letdown. I would often frown and roll my eyes at the gesture, not understanding the true value of what she was giving me.
When she passed away, I was 17. Life moved on quickly. I grew up, went to college, got married, and then divorced. Twenty years later, when I was 37, I returned to my childhood home. While going through some of the old things, I stumbled upon a small jar. Inside were seventeen familiar pieces of paper: her 17 postcards.Continue reading…
