My Gram

My paternal grandmother died when I was twenty.  She fought cancer for several years, hard years.  I loved her but was overwhelmed by the situation, didn't know how to react, and was caught up in my own life.  She wrote me cards and letters over that time, and I always felt guilty that I was so bad at calling or writing her back.  I wasn't grown up enough to deal with her illness.  I had one wonderful visit with her during that time, and I treasure those memories.

Yesterday I got a bug to declutter, and went through old correspondence.  In it were all the cards and letters she wrote from that time, and earlier.  A rabbit-themed fold-out birthday card for my 19th birthday--she said "I know, I know, you're 19, but I couldn't help myself."  I loved that card.

Reading her writing now, with greater understanding and experience, is like having a conversation with her.  I read her thanking me for a quilt I made her, how it kept her warm and loved.  I read about the gifts I sent, with my mom's help, and I feel sure that she knew I loved her.  And still do.  I always mourned that we couldn't know each other as adults.  But I trust that I will see her again, with her red hair restored.

Eleanor,  Frank Weston Bensen, Wikimedia Commons

The card my Gram used most often