Hi Grandma,

It’s Tuesday again — somehow the week already slipped by, like a page you meant to finish reading before bed. I made myself a cup of ginger tea this morning, and as I watched the steam rise, I thought of something you once said: that you like quiet mornings because they “don’t expect anything of you.” I’ve been thinking about that. It’s such a lovely way to put it. Most mornings, I rush straight into screens and notifications — and they always expect something.

But this morning, I sat at the window and let the light decide the pace. Maybe that’s what you meant. It rained a lot here the past few days. Not the heavy, dramatic kind that hammers the roof — just the patient, steady kind that soaks quietly. The world smelled like wet soil and beginnings. It reminded me of your story about the roses that refused to bloom until their third season. I like that idea — that some things only open when they’re ready. I also tried baking banana bread again (you’d be proud).

This time I added crushed walnuts and, remembering your “never rush the butter” rule, actually waited for it to soften properly. It worked! I brought a slice to my neighbor, who said it tasted like something her mother used to make. You’d have liked that moment — how food carries memories from one kitchen to another.

By the way, you mentioned that you used to hum while you cooked. What songs did you hum? Lately I’ve been listening to old jazz on Sunday afternoons — the kind where the trumpet sounds a little tired but still hopeful.
There’s one called Autumn Serenade that feels like someone saying, “I’m okay now.” Maybe you’d like it. Should I send you the link next week?

And thank you for your story about Grandpa and the garden after the rain. I can’t explain why, but that line stayed with me: “The smell of wet earth always reminds me of him.” I walked through the park yesterday after a drizzle, and I thought of you both. The ground was soft, and a few fallen petals stuck to my shoes. I didn’t brush them off. They felt like a reminder that some things choose to stay with us.

Next week, I might tell you about a small train trip I’m planning — I’ve been craving a slow journey. Maybe you can tell me about one of your favorite trips, the kind that left you feeling lighter when you came home. Until then, I hope this week brings you tiny moments that ask nothing of you — maybe a new bloom from your roses or a morning where the sunlight lands just right on your teacup. Take care of yourself, Grandma. And thank you for writing back — your stories have a way of settling into my thoughts and making the week feel gentler.
With love, Your Grandkid 🌞

P.S. I kept your “never rush the butter” advice taped to my fridge. It’s becoming my life motto.