Dear Grandma,

From the time I was in my mother’s womb you loved me with all your heart. The day I was born you were there to greet me with a warm smile and a special gift.

Your hair was graying, you had an obvious gleam in your eye and you welcomed the idea of your first grandchild entering the world. You silently promised to spoil me rotten and got started immediately in your secluded sewing room. Fabric swatches spewing from every drawer and pins and needles scattered on the desk, you clicked the switch to the Singer sewing machine. A slight grin shot up in your cheeks. Taking a seat in your infamous swivel chair, you pressed the pedal with a gentle foot. Nice, even stitches, pure white, with Humpy Dumpty ribbons running horizontally across the fabric you gradually fed it through. You will never know that the simple project you took five minutes to complete would ever impact me the way it has.

The next year, my “burpy” had a few tears, a yellowish tint, and a couple holes. It was the one item I never left behind. Despite my parents’ efforts to keep us united for the peace of the family, “burpy” was lost on more than one occasion. The gas station, the fair, and at your house an hour away were just some of the places it magically ended up. Innocent, helpless, and incommunicative I wailed for hours without end until daddy looked into my glassy eyes on my beet red face and saw his baby flailing her arms and legs in frustration, each moment becoming closer to giving in. It never failed; daddy always gave in and ended up searching frantically in trash piles or in some of my secret hiding places where “burpy” placed itself. Somehow it always made it back to the safety of my arms.

After a few years, it became a light brown color with holes all over and a very distinct odor, but it still was my most prized possession. The smell comforted me in sadness, the sight brought a smile to my face, and the sound of someone proclaiming “BURPY” sent me dashing toward it.

Now at sixteen years old, I realize that it isn’t just a raggedy piece of cloth that should have been thrown out years ago, but it is a symbol of our lives. Each year we grow together, our purity diminishes slightly, we become a little twisted on the inside, trials and tribulations may want to rip us a part, but our love keeps us sewn together. You may never think about this, but every time I look at my “burpy” that is shredded down to a few remaining remnants I remember that no matter what happens in my upcoming years, I have a grandma that loves and supports me and she will continue to love me forever. Not my “burpy”, but my grandma gives me safety and security. Not only do I love my “burpy”, but more importantly and more fervently, I love you grandma.

Love,

Corey