I realized earlier that today is the day I would have mailed my great aunt’s Valentine’s card. We exchanged cards every year since I was able to hold a crayon and draw something which, to my small child’s mind, resembled a heart. Yes, every year, without fail. There’s no one else I can say that about.
Cards for occasions were important to my great aunt. She never missed one. Not for me. Not for any of her friends. She always kept one of those address books with the date trackers in them. And she referred to it often. She’d check it, then go out and select appropriate cards so they were there, ready and waiting for when they needed. Each one included a personal note from her as well.
I’m going to miss getting those cards from her. Why is it that the sweetest memories are also sometimes the most painful?
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