Birthdays were always thrilling when I was a youngster, but not in the way that most kids would anticipate. My grandma had a very different custom than my friends, who would get brand-new toys, games, or money from their family. She would give me one old postcard every year, without fail. I didn’t initially understand why she picked such a traditional, straightforward present. Eager for something more glitzy or grandiose, I would scowl, roll my eyes, and stifle it without giving it any thought. After all, I was a teenager, and in my perspective, emotive symbols were frequently eclipsed by the appeal of shiny, new items.
I believed I had outgrown the whole birthday postcard custom by the time I turned 17. That was the last birthday I spent with her, and I had no clue that those straightforward postcards, which I had previously disregarded, would turn into some of my most treasured memories when she died soon after.
Let’s fast-forward 20 years. Something prompted me to search through old boxes hidden in the attic while I was 37 years old and visiting the house where I grew up. I discovered a jar among the lost relics of my childhood. I opened it out of curiosity and was immediately struck by the discovery of 17 vintage postcards. When I was small, my grandma used to gift me these postcards for every birthday, so they weren’t just ordinary postcards.
My breath froze in my throat as I took one out and turned it over. The card wasn’t merely generic. On each one of them, Grandma had written a tiny poem that contained a few notes about my life that year. She had a recognisable handwriting, a lovely script that seemed to contain more than paper and ink. Despite how long she had been gone, it felt like she was still there.
The poetry were brief, straightforward verses rather than lengthy letters or lofty assertions. “You still love to read by the window, and that makes me smile,” and “I noticed you’ve been practicing your piano more; keep at it” were some of the sweetest tiny insights about my personality that only Mom would have observed. Others offered insightful and sensible counsel for my “future self”: “Don’t be afraid to take risks,” “Remember, it’s okay to feel lost sometimes; just keep moving forward,” along with “Trust in your heart, even when others don’t understand you.”
Tears blurred my vision as I sat in wonder in the attic’s silence, reading each message. She seemed to have anticipated how much I would need her advice, affection, and words as the years passed. The postcards had always been about her heart, her intelligence, and her comprehension of me, which was something that money and material presents could never fully replace.
I finally understood what I had been missing for all those years. When I was younger, the postcards’ simplicity had let me down, but now they were the most priceless presents I could have ever gotten. Grandma’s financial and material gifts would have vanished due to time, use, or other circumstances. Her thoughts, perceptions, and love, however, were immortal, as were her words. They would be with me forever, beyond any material belonging, and they would never change.
Upon reading the last postcard, I was overcome with thankfulness. I had no idea how much more those simple notes had meant. They served as a means of communication between us over time, leaving a legacy that would help me in my hour of greatest need. The postcards were more than just keepsakes of my early years; they were a part of an enduring bond that went beyond her death. They served as a tangible reminder of her love and concern for me.
I knew I had to hold on to the postcards after I found them. I reverently put them on my wall after carefully carrying them home. Each one was framed and put on display as a memento of her love and the value of focussing on life’s little, apparently unimportant details. They are now some of my most cherished belongings.
The postcards are more than just bits of paper to me; they are reminders of the things that really count, windows into my history, and echoes of a grandmother’s love. They are more than just birthday presents; they are a lasting legacy of love, knowledge, and a timeless connection that will last a lifetime.
As I reflect, I am overwhelmed with appreciation. I wish I had realised the postcards’ actual worth when I was younger. However, perhaps I wasn’t supposed to comprehend them completely at that moment. When we’re ready, life has a way of teaching us lessons. I now appreciate how fortunate I am to have had a grandmother who cared enough to leave behind such a meaningful present as I place them on my wall and think back on each year that has gone by. The thought, attention to detail, and affection that went into every word she penned were more valuable than the postcard itself.
Granny Elizabeth, thank you. I cherish you. I will always remember your words and keep them close to my heart, just like you did.