It was clear she wouldn’t get up again. Everyone understood that, but it was still hard. Whenever I came home from school, I stayed by her side and kept her company. I talked to her, too, even though I wasn’t sure she heard me most of the time.

Mom scolded me a lot for spending so much time with Grandma instead of focusing on my homework, but I couldn’t help myself. Grandma had barely any time left, and my studies seemed insignificant.

A loud and awful lightning strike hit, and I stopped reading for a second to look out the window. When my eyes returned to the bed, I saw my grandmother moving her hand and trying to speak.

“Grandma!” I squeaked.

“Nora, come closer,” she whispered, and her eyes were lasered focused on me. Vivid. I thought she was miraculously feeling better and joined her excitedly.

“What is it, Grandma?” I asked, leaning in with a big smile.

“Yeah, Gran. Don’t worry,” I promised, my excitement dimmed.

With that, she closed her eyes, and half an hour later, she was gone.

I sobbed into my mother’s arms the rest of the night. The preparations later, the funeral, and everything else were excruciating. But my aunt told me that Grandma had a beautiful life, and I shouldn’t be sad she’s gone but happy that I knew her.

Those were extremely helpful words that I took to heart as I moved on with life, even if the concept of death and what it all meant could keep me up at night.

So, I threw myself into school, my friends, and a part-time job.

I tried to keep myself as busy as possible to avoid going into an existential crisis. I even forgot her final wish as the months blurred. It wasn’t until Christmas Eve arrived that her words surged back into my mind.

“Remember,” Grandma had told me in a raspy voice, “the little porcelain box in the attic. When I’m gone, take it down. But don’t open it until Christmas morning.”

It was tucked away in a corner behind a stack of books. Its delicate lid was decorated with faded roses and worn gold edges. I carefully lifted and shook it a little to see if I could figure out what it had inside. But no sound came.

Wondering if it was empty only made me want to open it more, but I had made a promise. So, I placed it on my nightstand and waited till Christmas morning, just as she wanted.

I woke up at 5 a.m. the next day and jumped out of bed to open it. Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, was a small, yellowed note that smelled faintly of lavender, just like Grandma’s room used to smell. The note was in her handwriting, shaky but still beautiful.

She must have written months before her illness worsened. It read:

“Nora, my dearest girl, my greatest treasure is hidden where we kept the Christmas ornaments. Don’t let anyone else take it; it’s for you.”

My heart raced as I went back to the attic with the note clutched tightly in my hand. I found the old box of Christmas decorations tucked away in a corner among the things I hadn’t disturbed the previous day.

“This key is for the old wardrobe downstairs, the one I always told you never to open. Merry Christmas, my dear.”

Okay, it was clear that my grandmother wanted me to have fun. This was like a treasure hunt, so I hurried down to the living room, where the old wardrobe stood.

I always wanted to know what was inside, but Grandma told me never to open it. Now, I was nervous, and my hands were shaking as I put the key in the lock and turned it. There was a click, and the heavy doors opened.

But I was still delighted at what I saw. She had journals, photos, items, and letters collected in there. Three of those, in particular, caught my eye. One was addressed to me, one to my mom, and one to my dad.

There were others for the rest of the family, but I only took those pertinent to my home. I heard movement from the kitchen, and I knew my parents were waiting for me to open Christmas gifts.

“That’s so her!” Mom gushed, as she opened her letter first. Her eyes widened, and she uttered, “She left me her silk scarf.”

I smiled and pulled it from the wardrobe. Mom wrapped the material around herself as she read Grandma’s words:

“For you, my dear daughter, to remember me by when you need comfort. May it bring you warmth and joy.”

Dad’s letter was next. He unfolded it carefully and smiled as he read, “To my son-in-law, for the man who shares my love of history. This is for you, from your old father-in-law’s collection. May it ignite the same passion in you.”

Finally, it was my turn. I opened my letter with trembling hands and a pounding heart.

“My dearest Nora,” I read aloud, “I have been quietly saving money for years, tucking it away little by little. This is for you, to help you pursue your dreams. Use it wisely, my love.”

Below her words were bank details, which we checked later, and the amount was more than enough for an entire first year at an elite school or four years at a state school.

All the women in my family had admired these pieces, and Grandma instructed me and Mom to distribute them as we saw fit.

Mom and Dad gave me their presents and exchanged some among themselves, but I knew that nothing we got that year would compare to Grandma’s surprise. In a sense, she gave us one more Christmas with her.

This year, I graduated from high school and decided to start college in our state. So, the money she saved would help me get my degree without any debt. In this day and age, I know I’m incredibly privileged.

We’ll be spending our technically second Christmas without her, and it’s hard, but I can finally see her death, as my aunt tried to explain. I don’t go into a crisis about life and death and what the universe means.

I simply see life as a gift, too. We’re here. We make our memories. We love. We grow. We learn, and then, we’re gone, whatever or wherever that means. And hopefully, we leave a legacy full of love to those who loved us just as beautifully.

Here’s another story: At my grandmother’s funeral, I saw my mother discreetly slip a mysterious package into the coffin. When I took it later out of curiosity, I didn’t expect it would unravel heartbreaking secrets that would haunt me forever.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.