Maybe you will remember that I always had the snack you liked.
Maybe you will remember sitting at the counter while I cooked.
Maybe there was one dish that tasted different at my house even though everyone swore the recipe was exactly the same.
Perhaps decades from now, you will smell something cooking and suddenly be eight years old again.
That is the strange power of ordinary memory.
It waits quietly.
Then one smell, one song, one sentence can bring an entire room back.
Maybe You’ll Remember That I Was Happy to See You
This one matters to me.
Children notice faces more than adults sometimes realize.
They know when their arrival changes a room.
I hope mine changed when you arrived.
I hope there was something in my face that told you:
You're here.
Not:
Why haven't you visited sooner?
Not:
How long can you stay?
Just:
I'm glad you're here.
Maybe that is one of the simplest gifts grandparents can give.
A place where someone is visibly happy that you walked through the door.
The older I become, the more I understand how rare that feeling can be in adult life.
We enter workplaces where people need something from us.
We go home to responsibilities.
Our phones carry requests.
Our schedules are filled with obligations.
How beautiful, then, to have even one door in the world where your arrival itself is enough to make somebody smile.
If my home ever felt like that to you, then perhaps I gave you something more valuable than I realized.
Maybe You’ll Remember the Things I Said Without Thinking
This thought makes me a little nervous.
Because adults imagine children remember our important speeches.
I'm not sure they do.
Maybe you won't remember the long advice I gave you.
Perhaps you will forget the careful words I chose when you were worried about school or relationships.
Instead, you may remember some sentence I said casually fifty times.
“Drive carefully.”
“Text me when you get home.”
“Take a jacket.”
“Have you eaten?”
“There's always room for one more.”
Or perhaps:
“You'll figure it out.”
“I knew you could.”
“Come here and give me a hug.”
Words become ordinary through repetition.
But sometimes repetition is exactly what gives them weight.
Maybe years from now, you will catch yourself saying one of my phrases.
Perhaps you won't even notice where it came from.
I like that thought.
Maybe You’ll Remember Being Listened To
Children tell long stories.
I know this because I listened to yours.
Sometimes there were so many details.
Someone said something at school.
Then another person said something.
Then apparently there was an important part involving lunch.
And just when I thought we had reached the conclusion, you remembered something that happened before everything else.
I hope I listened.
Not perfectly.