My 68 y.o. grandma wrote in the family chat asking for money

up notes, Polaroids, hand-written poems. One little boy, no older than ten, places a drawing of her holding a cat with angel wings. “To Miss Margaret,” it reads, “thank you for the hugs.”

As the day unfolds, it hits me: she wasn’t forgotten. Not really.

She was just waiting for us to remember again.

In the late afternoon, I take one last walk through continue reading …