My knees near gave, because inside the base of that dented coffee pot was a stack of sealed envelopes, and each one was addressed in Nadines hand to one of our grandchildren, by name, and on top a note to me, and I had to lean on the counter to keep from folding up entirely.
There were envelopes for all six of them, and a couple marked for the great-grandbaby not even born yet.
Nadine had written a letter to each grandchild, to be opened on the big days she knew she would miss, a graduation, a wedding, a first heartbreak, so that Grandma could be there in her own words even after she was gone.
Her note to me said: You are not the only one I love, you old grump, though you are my favorite. I wrote these for the babies so I can be at their weddings and their graduations even from where I am going. Give them out at the right times. And do not read theirs, they are private, but know that in every single one I told them to take care of their grandpa. So let them. Love, Nadine.
A whole year I had grieved alone, keeping my distance from the family because my sorrow felt too big to share, and all along Nadine had left me a reason to go to each of them, a letter to deliver, a piece of her to hand over, a way back into the circle of the people we made together.
I started delivering them. When our oldest granddaughter graduated that spring, I gave her the envelope with her name on it, and she read her grandmothers words and wept and then hugged me so hard, and asked me to tell her stories about Nadine, and just like that the wall my grief had built came down.
Nadine had known. She had known I would pull away, and she had left a trail of letters to pull me back, straight into the arms of our grandchildren, who it turned out needed their grandpa as much as he needed them.
I see the family all the time now. I am delivering Nadines letters slowly, at the right moments, over years to come. Every one is a gift from her, and every one is a reason for me to be there, in the room, part of it all.
The cheapest-looking thing my wife ever gave me held her love for our whole family, and one last plan to keep us all together. I make my coffee in that dented pot every morning, and then more often than not I go see one of the kids, because Nadine told them to take care of their grandpa, and she told their grandpa, without a word, to let them. She thought of everyone, right to the end. She always did.