Long ago packed away. A box within a box. A box stuffed with letters. Keepsakes of the heart.
I linger over a card from my grandmother. Her distinctive cursive makes me smile. I see her hands, the ringed fingers that first tucked this card into its sleeve. Like the folds of the envelope, they are worn soft.
Inside, a timeless birthday wish and a signature as familiar as air:
She signed every card that way.
Quotation marks. No comma.
The gift and hope of unconditional love?
Oh Grandma, I did and do and always will.