I’ve written letters ever since I could write. Some page length others just plain drawings and my grandmother was the sole recipient of them all. She kept them all safely, in a brown paper bag I had decorated for her, ironically adorning it with trees. When she passed away I was lost. Having being the first grandchild albeit the only granddaughter, we had shared a strong bond. So, two nights after her burial I found myself in her room. Her smell still lingered on the pillow and I lay my head where hers would have been. I don’t remember how long I lay there, that is until my eyes caught the sight of a brown paper bag, safely kept atop her shelf. I brought it down and carefully opened the bag, afraid that it would disintegrate at the mere touch of my hands. And there before me were the countless letters, drawings and small tokens I had ever given her. This happened to be every Friday. For me going through all the letters, the bad spellings, sloppy handwriting and hilarious drawings, made me realize that I still loved letter writing. It gave me hope, courage and strength that I could not find anywhere else. It helped me overcome my grief and cope with the loss of my grandmother. But in the end it managed to bring me even more close to her.