My grandma would only give me one old postcard for my birthdays. I used to frown and roll my eyes every time. While other kids got gifts wrapped in shiny paper, I got a faded card with her neat cursive handwriting on the back. I never said it out loud, but deep down, I thought she was just being old-fashioned and stingy.
She passed away when I was seventeen. Life moved on—college, marriage, work—and I tucked those memories away somewhere in the back of my mind.Two decades later, when I was thirty-seven, I went back to my childhood home to help my parents clean out the attic. That’s when I found a small glass jar tucked behind an old sewing box. Inside were the postcards—seventeen of them—carefully tied together with a red ribbon.
I sat down and began reading them one by one. My heart stopped when I realized they weren’t just random postcards. Each one carried a poem she had written about me that year—little snapshots of my growing up.
One talked about the way I used to chase fireflies at age six. Another reminded me of the time I cried over losing my favorite book. Some were filled with her gentle advice for the future—about kindness, patience, and never losing wonder.By the time I finished reading, I was in tears.
It hit me: these postcards were never meant to be just birthday gifts. They were her way of leaving a part of herself with me—seventeen messages of love, wisdom, and memory.
If she had given me money or material things, they’d be gone by now. But her words? They’ll stay with me forever.I took them home, framed them, and hung them on my wall. Every morning, I read one before starting my day.
Thank you, Granny Elizabeth… for loving me in a way I was too young to understand.