The postcards came about every six months. They always ended the same -- I love you, Gran. Gran used a straight edge under her pen when she wrote and made that part of her signature: Gran______ . I thought it looked classy.
Everything about Gran seemed classy. She wore her gold and diamond jewelry in the shower, in the swimming pool, to bed. She kept the costume pieces in velvet boxes and little baggies labeled with typewritten descriptions of the piece, who had given it to her and when.
Ma would hand me the postcards when we picked up the mail at the end of our long, gravel driveway, often in the blistering heat of an Iowa summer. They'd reflect somewhere exotic, foreign stamps, exquisite cathedrals.
Gran had a roll of address labels for me: Miss Rita Jane (retracted). Even though the postcards started coming shortly after I was born, I was always Miss Rita Jane to Gran and the U.S. Postal Service.
I haven't had the opportunity for much exotic travel yet -- perhaps I will -- Gran didn't start taking her PanAm flights around the world until her children were grown -- so my memories have to be set down a little more carefully. I don't have a postcard, I'm not a great photographer -- all I have to capture the moment is my words.
I never really heard the stories behind the postcards -- Gran died when I was a senior in high school -- so now I look back and wonder why she chose to share one sentence about the honeycomb architecture of a building with a four-year-old. Who did she meet? Was she happy? What did she like so much about traveling? Was she lonely? What prompted her to wander so?
I don't know if I'll be able to leave behind fabulous jewelry or postcards from world travel, but I do know this: My daughter will never wonder what I was thinking.
Good or bad, I'll never be an enigma.
