My grandma would only give me one old postcard for my birthdays. Every year, I’d frown, roll my eyes, and tuck it away somewhere. I was 17 when she died.
Twenty years later, when I was 37, I went back to my childhood home to clean out the attic. That’s when I found a small glass jar, sealed tight and labeled with my name. Inside were her 17 postcards.
Curious, I pulled one out—and froze. It wasn’t just a random postcard. On the back, in her familiar looping handwriting, she had written a short poem about me—each one tied to that exact year of my life. Some were sweet little observations: the way I used to hum when nervous, or how I hated goodbyes. Others were words of advice for my “future self.”
By the last one, I was crying. It said, “When you finally read these, I hope you’ll know—I was always writing your story with love.”
