Remnants
My mother’s parents died many years before I came along. My grandmother had brain cancer and died when my Mom was only 9. My grandfather died in a tragic truck accident a little over ten years later. I know them only through my mom’s stories about them and a few photographs, and occasionally (like tonight), I feel hollow where there should reside the wisdom and love of my grandparents.
Fortunately, some letters my grandfather wrote my grandmother when he was courting her survive. It’s been since last Christmas since I read them, but I still feel the impact they made on me. Holding those letters in my hand, I felt as if they were alive still, as if I could go to their bedroom and ask them how they met, how he proposed to her, and the first song they danced to. Maybe I’d see them smile.
I think about this as I pick up my journal for the first entry in over two months, and I’m reminded that our writing, whether a grocery list or a letter to a loved one, is a remnant of who we are, what we believe in, and how we see the world.
