Grandma,

I am at a loss. Here I am, trying to write a letter to you, and I have so many broken sentences running through my mind. They begin with “I love you,” “thank you,” and “just know that…” they rarely end in anything besides fragments of gratitude spelled out with imperfect grammar and dramatic imagery. How am I to compose a letter full of such personal information, anecdotes, and cherished quotes from my childhood, and spell it out for you? This must be one of the hardest challenges I’ve faced as a writer.

When I try to think of a way to thank you, I am overwhelmed by memories. I remember being a little girl, 10 or 11 at most, running around your beautiful house in search of Seth. Suddenly, I heard a long, frustrated sigh right outside your bedroom window; of course, being the little spy that I was, I climbed up the splintering barrel standing beneath your window and stuck my face to the screen. There you were, crouched on a small chair, staring at your computer screen. There were papers with notes scattered around you, held in place by dusty rocks and delicate trinkets. You sat at your desk with thick dark curls hiding your expression from me, your hands poised over the keys as you waited for the next scene to find its way from your thoughts to your fingers.

It was that day that I wondered, for the very first time, what does Grandma do in there? I learned that you were not just the mysterious backpacker that I grew up with; the warmhearted grandma who, along with my grandpa, taught me to make root beer in a massive pot positively overflowing with clouds of white dry ice; the woman who taught me that, when necessary, hotdogs can be consumed when wrapped in wheat bread instead of puffy buns (oh! the horror!).

You were a writer. You are a writer. You transformed your backpacking trips into tales that swallow me whole and spit me out in the midst of the Sierra Nevadas, or an orchard, or your relationships.

So, I suppose this is my attempt to thank you for inspiring me, for being patient with me, for loving me—in the vast expanse of the mountains and within the confines of the sunny rooms in your house. My thank yous, unfortunately, are simplified, watered-down versions of the feelings you’ve planted in my soul.

Thank you for bringing my sheltered, too skinny, awkward little being out into the wilderness, and teaching me the ways of becoming a child of nature.

Thank you for not getting angry with me that time when I tried to sweep your floor like they do in movies. “No!” Grandpa Stu cried. “You’re gonna get dust everywhere!”

Thank you for answering the phone, no matter what, with “Hey, honey.” You use the same tone every time, as if each call is exactly the sort of surprise you were hoping for.

Thank you for receiving my poem, and this letter, with such awe-inspiring gratitude and kindness, though you are my inspiration and I am your humble fan.

I love you,

Shelby