By Felicia Sabartinelli

My grandmother was a singer. She was famous for singing at local events and parties, and I’d often accompany her, admiring her angelic tone and sassy demeanor as she sang Patsy Cline or Linda Ronstadt. I was in awe as she strummed, hips swaying with the fringe on her guitar strap, waiting for that wink she’d direct my way. 

When I was eleven, I stumbled upon her brown leather-bound journal, hidden under the cushion of her favorite rocking chair. The pages were filled with songs she’d written about life on the farm with Grandpa and how she felt like she missed out on life’s other opportunities. 

I don’t know why, but I started to write messages on the blank pages, hoping she’d find them and write back.

“Love you, Grandma!” 07/22/1997

“Ella was here!” 1/10/1999

Year after year, I noticed the lyrics waned, but that didn’t stop me from writing about getting my license, how my first kiss tasted like Big Red bubble gum, and failing organic chemistry. 

Eventually, I wrote less about my milestones and more about our shared moments. 

“We had a grandma/granddaughter date today: Lunch at Applebees and a movie,

 The Impossible. We laugh-cried when you drooled butter pecan ice cream on your  top.” 02/18/2013

“Today, you held my daughter for the first time—I thought my heart was going to explode.” 8/13/2017

I hoped that someday she’d reply or mention it, but she never did. 

Days before my fortieth birthday, my Grandma passed quietly in her sleep. A “good death,” the coroner said. When we began sorting her things, rummaging through dresser drawers, I found her journal—not in its usual hiding place—under a pair of fuzzy red socks. I flipped through the pages admiring her handwriting, recalling her songs like “Hopscotch Willy” & “Love Me Tender.” 

Three-quarters of the way through, I discovered a folded piece of paper, sandwiched between two pages. A fusion of vanilla, lavender, and sunshine invaded my nose. Across the top, “Ella’s Song,” was written. 

It read, “Ella my dear / kind & coy…” 

I swear I could almost hear her “…a force to be reckoned…”  

The continuing lyrics provided a glimpse of how proud she was and the joy she experienced watching me become a mother. She shared how she thought second kisses were always better, ice cream was best before dinner, and that I should vow to try something new at least once a month. 

When I got to the last verse, I realized I had been crying. 

“When the afterall calls / know your words have not gone unseen / write me like you have / I’ll continue replying in the wild canyon wind / the kiss of the summer sun / in every coo of your kin / You see, my love / words would never suffice / I never wanted you to stop / I asked nature to be the messenger / and we’ve been here replying all along.”

Outside, the metal wind chimes began to rattle against one another. There was no breeze, just a silent sky awakened by a light nudge—a wink from another realm.