Dear Grandma,

It’s taken me a while to smile when they say our name. If only I had grown up with you braiding my hair and telling captivating stories from your life, maybe I’d look at you and see my own glistening future. Maybe I’d look at you and finally know that I’ll be alright, that I’ll live through the aches all girls are given before they’re even born. 

Dad doesn’t talk about you much. He’s not much of an open book when it comes to sentimentality. Not that anybody ever asks how he is. But on long rides through rural Maryland, it gets really quiet, and I have a feeling he’s thinking of you. 

He’s half of you, and I’m half of him. And when I wear your shimmering necklace, I swear he sees you. I swear I see you. 

Isn’t it strange? All I have from you is a string of gleaming spheres full of rich delicacy, and your name, which literally translates to “pearl” in Latin. 

I don’t always feel composed of delicacies. I’m still learning what it means to be a woman—what it means to bash the piano keys and the only thing people hear is music. 

Was this grief once yours? Are these tears inherited, as our name is? How many times was your heart broken and how many times did you have to mend it yourself? There’s so much I’d ask you if you were right here in front of me. 

If only we were from the same time. If only.  

I miss you and I never knew you. I never knew you, yet somehow you’re still home. 

Your granddaughter, 

Margaret