I opened up my mail this morning and saw I had a note about my family tree. It was in reference to my grandmother’s grandmother, but when I took a look I found myself just staring at my grandmother’s name and the dates of her birth and death. I loved her very much. It fascinates me that someone for whom I cared so deeply is totally unknown to my children and grandchildren.

There is a picture, somewhere, of Grandma and me ready to head off for Sunday School in Scott. She stood there somberly staring at the camera and I was to her left, holding her hand. I remember that morning. I remember the smells of rural Indiana in the 1950’s. I remember the scent and feel of her. It is so real . . . and it doesn’t exist for my descendants. Then, again, she never smelled the sun-kissed blond hair of Robert William and Quentin.

I am the link, but I can’t make them real to each other. It’s a bit frustrating. That’s the way things are. Still, I am aware of the connection and when I toss one of the comforters Grandma made over her great-grandsons and great-grandchildren, I am comforted.