Thursday was my first Valentine's Day without a card from Grandma. It was the third (and final) card missing this year. My grandmother, Elaine, passed away this summer on July 14th (exactly 9 months). She loved to express her affection for others through finding just the right card for the right person on any given occasion. I remember looking forward to opening the mailbox and finding the envelope addressed in her neat, slanted script (it was much like my dad's). While Grandpa was still living, she always signed for him, too. Once I moved to Abilene, the cards were often hand-delivered when we would meet up for lunch on Sundays. Before my last year of graduate school, Amber and I moved into the little lake cabin next door to her house. Amber got a card that year, too. I wish that last year hadn't been so busy, so I could have enjoyed the last months living close to her. I didn't realize our time was so limited, but I guess no one ever does.
I never knew that the little, often sappy, cards she sent me had meant so much. Actually, they probably didn't matter much in themselves - I just miss the woman who sent them so faithfully year after year.