11/26/2024
Two years after my grandmother passed away, my family put together an album of her Christmas cards. It was a COVID Christmas that year – there was a parking lot meetup of aunts and uncles to swap gifts, and a copy of the album arrived on our doorstep. After my household was asleep, I put another log in the wood-stove, wrapped up in a blanket, and opened the cover.
The first photo card she sent was in 1938, her last in 2018. Each card in between offers a glimpse of the year. I watched my aunts and uncles appear on the pages, first as babies in knit hats, then toddlers in farm flannel, white dresses, and patent leather shoes. There is a formal family portrait from 1961 where everyone is dressed sharp, my grandfather in his navy uniform. There are graduations, trips, weddings, grandchildren… then, the first card without my grandfather. Each image is a flash of time. I can hear my grandmother’s laugh, feel her sturdy hug, smell her cooking. All from a photo.
I'll pull out the book later this week. It spends most of the year tucked away, wrapped in the stockings my grandmother made for us, not a stitch loosened after all these years. I'll flip through it with my sons, pointing out their grandfather, my sisters- ask them if they can find me in a pack of cousins. And for a moment love will transcend a generation.
I've often wondered if she imagined this happening? If she pictured me, on my couch, Christmas tree lit, sharing her story with my children? I think she did. 😊
And I am so grateful.
