My grandma would only give me one old postcard for my birthdays. Every year, I\u2019d frown, roll my eyes, and tuck it away somewhere. I was 17 when she died.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Twenty years later, when I was 37, I went back to my childhood home to clean out the attic. That\u2019s when I found a small glass jar, sealed tight and labeled with my name. Inside were her 17 postcards.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Curious, I pulled one out\u2014and froze. It wasn\u2019t just a random postcard. On the back, in her familiar looping handwriting, she had written a short poem about me\u2014each 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 \u201cfuture self.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
By the last one, I was crying. It said, \u201cWhen you finally read these, I hope you\u2019ll know\u2014I was always writing your story with love.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n realized those were actually the most precious gift<\/strong> that I could\u2019ve ever hoped for. If she had given me money or material things, they\u2019d be long gone by now. But her words? They\u2019ll stay with me forever<\/strong>,<\/p>\n\n\n\n I took them home and hung them on my wall. Now, they\u2019re one of my most treasured possessions. Thank you, Granny Elizabeth\u2026 I love you.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" My grandma would only give me one old postcard for my birthdays. Every year, I\u2019d frown, roll my eyes, and tuck it away somewhere. I was 17 when she died. Twenty years…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3411,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3410","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-viral-tales"],"yoast_head":"\n