My grandma would only give me one old postcard for my birthdays. I would frown and roll my eyes. I was 17 when she died.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,