My grandma would only give me one old postcard for my birthdays. I would frown and roll my eyes. I was 17 when she di:ed. When I was 37,
I went to my childhood home and found a jar with her 17 postcards. I turned one and froze. It was not just a random postcard. She had written a small poem about me, filled with specific details from that year of my life. Some were sweet little observations; others were pieces of advice for my “future self.”
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