A letter to my daughters
When I was a little girl, I remember peering into your grandmother’s cupboards to see all of her pretty things.
“This red cup belonged to my grandmother’s sister, Rubena, she died at a very young age.” “And that cake stand held your great-grandmother’s wedding cake.” My mom would tell me the story that went with each and every piece.
Every cup and saucer, every plate had a story.
Then, one day I had a family of my own. Every time your grandmother came for a visit, she would bring me a box of her pretty things. As we carefully unwrapped each box, she would once again tell me the stories that went with them.
Megan and Holly, I’m serving notice now. I have boxes and boxes of pretty things. They are coming your direction, one box at a time. You better start making room. It’s tradition.