Dear Grandpa – Love, Me

In early February, I spent the weekend at my grandparents’ home in Washington, D.C., sitting in the stillness that follows a loss too large for a house to hold. 

My grandmother passed away in January, and her absence was everywhere — in the kitchen where she commanded every meal, in the hallway where her slippers once shuffled softly across the carpet, and in her office, where she sat with a book or red pen in hand.

Grief has a way of making a home feel unfamiliar. Rooms stay the same, but their meaning shifts. The sound of voices and sounds comes to a halt, and all that remains are glimpses of the past.

But in drawers and boxes, tucked between old photographs and documents in their basement, I found something that felt steady: postcards.

My grandfather, Jack, worked for the federal government in climate change and international affairs. His career carried him across oceans and into cities I’d only read about. There were conference rooms in Europe, policy meetings in Asia, briefings that shaped conversations larger than most of us will ever see. And from every place he traveled, he sent something home.

Each postcard was addressed the same way: “Dear luv,” or sometimes, “Dear hun.”

And it was always signed the same: “Love, me.”

The ink faded on some postcards over the decades, the corners starting to curl. But the message never did. No matter how far he traveled, he made sure she received a tangible reminder that she was loved and accounted for — that distance didn’t diminish devotion. Even in different time zones, he chose to write.

As I’ve grown older, my grandfather has spoken more honestly about those years. He’s said he sometimes regrets how much he traveled — how work sometimes pulled him away from birthdays, ordinary dinners and quiet evenings at home. His career mattered, but so did the time he missed.

“It was good to relax this afternoon,” the card said. “I do look forward to next Sunday being with you.”

The postcards don’t erase that absence, nor do they replace presence. But they show that even when he was away, he was trying to bridge the gap between the two most important parts of his life.

At the time, they were simple notes of historical facts or travel stories. But now, they feel like evidence of a world he lived in before I even existed.

My grandparents didn’t build 60 years of marriage on grand gestures alone — they maintained consistency and intention. They chose their words carefully and sent them faithfully.

Sitting in their basement that weekend, holding those postcards in my hands, I realized something I hadn’t fully understood before: Nurture your relationships, for they’re the ones that nurture your passions.

These postcards have outlived arguments, flights and time zones and even people.

In one drawer, I found something different — a Father’s Day card, still in pristine condition, written by my grandmother. The only remnant I could find of her written love.

“Dear Hon,” she wrote, mirroring him.

She signed it, “Love, Nancy.”

I wish I’d been older to witness more of my grandparents’ connection without taking it for granted, but I was still lucky enough to visit a home full of love, laughter and lots of card games.

Sometimes, my grandparents traveled together. When they did, they sent postcards not to each other, but to my great-grandparents, the Lucks at Friendship Manor.

“Dear folks,” they would write. “Love, J + N.”

“Beautiful Indian summer at the beach (OBX) this weekend,” the card said. “We walked at the shore and picked sea shells just like in the summer. October, however, has the best sunset of any other time of year.”

They always treated each other with the utmost respect and care and were true students of the world.

These words have stayed with me since I discovered them and made me reflect on my own relationships with my family, friends and my potential future marriage.

I think about how to choose my own words in all situations, good and bad, and the type of words I will tolerate as I move forward in this life. 

My grandmother’s absence provides an additional perspective on how precious love is and how careful we must be with the words we give to the people closest to us. My grandfather always tells me: be honest, kind and never raise your voice. 

For those actions can carry enormous weight and become an everlasting legacy.

Love, me.