Going Postal

I’m not sure when I recognized that things had changed.

It could very well have been the first time I reached into a mailbox and knew that there was a letter from my Grammy in Michigan.

She lives in a town called Stillwater. It’s got like a gazillion lakes and during the summer it’s one of the best places to be because the swimming is awesome and the guys are almost all cute and it’s easy to make friends because everyone is friendly.

Grammy is funny, she collects lots of old dolls. She’s turned her whole basement into this colossal doll museum. Now, I know I’m a girl, but I never really got into dolls that much. Even when I was little. But being in Grammy’s basement, checking out all the dolls is amazing. You’d never dream that so many different types of dolls existed. She goes to these doll conventions all over the world and she brings home one or two dolls she finds there every time she goes. They keep adding up and adding up. But it really is a sight to behold. I mean, it’s not really a museum; she doesn’t just let anybody down. But I get to whenever I want. I go down and maneuver my way through all of the aisles and cabinets and spot one specific doll and Grammy tells me all about how she got it and then I make up my own story about who or what the doll is.

I like that about visiting Grammy.

But I think the change happened the day I realized there was a letter from her in our mailbox.