A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind along without corporeal friend.
– Emily Dickinson
When I was a kid my Nana was my pen pal. I sent letters and cards to other family members, too, but most of my regular correspondence came from Nana. We talked about spring flowers, the leaves changing in autumn, and the snow falling in the winter. I wrote about things that happened in my day and she told me what “Inky” the cat was up to. When I started school I told her about my favourite subjects and the other kids in my class. When my sister was born, I told her all about the tiny new person in my house who made weird noises, got all the attention, and was quickly becoming my best friend. My little kid writing was fairly simple and Mum was always nearby with helpful writing prompts and spell-checks.
Decades later, when we had to move Nana into a care home, my Aunt started to regularly give my cousins, my sister, and I small packages. Every gift we had made for her and all of the letters we had ever written were being “repatriated” or “returned to sender”. At one time or other, there were five of us kids writing regular letters to our grandmother, not to mention the dozens of holiday and thank-you cards. Instead of being thrown in the trash, these mementos were giving us the opportunity to relive a precious part of our early lives.
These days, Nana has a lot of trouble remembering the details of her life. She remembers her childhood in Buffalo in photographic detail, but she can no longer reliably distinguish between her children, grandchildren, and siblings. My husband came into her life years after she had stopped forming new memories and she met him “for the first time” whenever we visited. There was somehow something beautiful about this. Every time I introduced her to Tyler, I would tell her that he was born in her hometown and grew up a thirty minute drive from her old family home. She would beam and begin sharing stories from her childhood; the trouble they got into, the day-trips to the beach, and the awful sounding English woolen bathing suits.
When I sat down this week to plan my card and letter writing, I immediately thought of Nana. What could I write to someone who has trouble remembering my face? How much does she know about what’s happening in the world right now? Is she alone? Is she lonely? I thought of all the letters I wrote to her as a child and all the letters she wrote back. I thought about what I shared with her and the excitement I felt when I read her stories. What would make Nana happy now?
I wrote letters to a handful of people this week for a number of different reasons. Out of respect for their privacy, I have decided not to include them here. They were all brief and contained varied messages of love and hope for safety and happiness. None of them really expressed what I truly wanted to say – I’m not very good at writing letters these days – but I hope that the novelty of mail, at the very least, will bring some joy.
I worry about my Nana, especially during this time of social isolation and fear. I worry that she is afraid. I worry that she is alone. I worry that she will keep forgetting and that reality will keep slowly slipping further out of reach. When I wrote her letter I didn’t mention the global pandemic, working from home, or quarantine. I wrote about the flowers growing in our garden.
I wrote a second letter to my Nana, one that I didn’t send. Maybe this letter says something more, or better expresses my love, fear, gratitude, and joy. Maybe it doesn’t make sense to send it, or maybe it’s too late. I’ll leave it here, hoping that somehow she already knows.
Dear Nana,
My name is Laura and I am your second grandchild. Do you remember me? My Mum was your daughter, Elizabeth. She was very sick and she died a long time ago. I am so sorry, Nana. We all miss her, too. Maybe she is with Papa and Inky now.
Do you remember all the letters I used to send you? I saw some of them recently and I wrote about some pretty silly things. I used to tell you about the flowers, our cat Mog, and my sister Julia, back when she was a baby. (She is almost 24 years old!) All of those things are still very important to me, so maybe my letters weren’t so silly after all.
You and my Mum had the most beautiful gardens I have ever seen. I remember asking you both about each colourful flower and you would tell me what they were, over and over (thank you for being patient with me!) My favourites were the SnapDragons, because you could make them “talk” with your fingers. Do you remember when you had a plant in your front garden that grew taller than you? You sent us a picture of it, but I don’t remember what kind of flower it was. Remember when Papa climbed that tree and my Dad took a picture? I don’t remember because I think I was too little, but I always loved looking at the picture. It didn’t seem like something Papa would do.
It’s almost Easter time. Remember when we had Easter egg hunts at your house? We had inside hunts and outside hunts. You had a big backyard that was perfect for hiding eggs.
I am writing this letter to say “thank you” and “I love you”. Thank you for coming to our house for every “family” birthday party. Thank you for inviting us to stay at your house for a week during the summers. I used to think that Mum and Dad missed us terribly, but I think they probably needed the break. Thank you for telling me about your beautiful flowers and for letting me “help out” in the garden.
Most of all, thank you for my Mum. Thank you for raising her and for helping her become who she was when I knew her. Thank you for being there for her when things were difficult, and thank you for being there for us near the end. Thank you for writing letters to little Laura, and thank you for loving me.
I hope that you are okay and I hope that all of the problems in the world are far away from you now.
Whenever I see new spring flowers I think of you.
Love,
Laura
How to Be Happy 