Things My Grandmother Buried

I found the map on the back of a pie recipe. It was tucked between yellowed pages in Grandma's old recipe binder, hidden in plain sight under Blackberry Cobbler – 1963. The map was drawn in blue ink, shaky with age, but deliberate. There were seven small Xs, each marked with a label: Hope, Pride, Grief, First Love, Regret, Truth, and Freedom.

At first, I thought it was a joke, some whimsical thing Grandma had done long before she became the stern woman who never smiled in photos. But something about it felt intentional—like it was waiting for someone, maybe me.

The first X, Hope, was near the apple tree in the backyard. I grabbed a trowel and dug beneath the roots. About a foot down, I found a rusted tin box. Inside, there was a photo of Grandma as a girl, holding a stack of books and smiling like the world was brand new. Tucked behind the photo was a note:

“Hope is the first thing they tried to take from me. I kept it here, so I’d remember I once had it.”

I stared at the photo. I’d never seen her like that.

The next X, Pride, was under the porch. I found an old locket, broken open. Inside, two tiny photos—Grandma in a nurse's uniform, and a man in uniform I didn’t recognize. Her brother? A boyfriend? The note read:

“They told me a girl like me shouldn't aim too high. I did anyway.”

Grief was buried behind the shed, in a small metal lunchbox. Inside: baby shoes. The note didn’t explain much, just:

“He never took a breath. But I still rocked him in my dreams.”

By then, my hands were blistered and my chest felt tight. I had never known this woman—only the version that told me to sit up straight and never waste time on tears. Yet here she was, opening her life to me through dirt and silence.

First Love was buried near the fence line, beneath wildflowers. I found an old letter sealed in plastic. It was from someone named June, written in cursive so delicate it looked like lace.

“They wouldn’t let us be together. I told her to run. She didn’t. I loved her anyway.”

I sat there for a long time. Grandma had never mentioned June. She’d never even hinted.

The X marked Regret was near the clothesline. I found a broken ceramic angel, glued back together. No note this time. Just the object, fragile and flawed.

Truth was in the attic, hidden behind a loose floorboard. There was a box of newspaper clippings, all from the local paper. Articles on women’s marches, protests, a scrawled note:

“I marched, once. Quietly. While the world looked away.”

Finally, Freedom—the last X—led me to her closet. In the back, behind her dresses, was a locked suitcase. The key was in her Bible. Inside the suitcase was a plane ticket dated five years before I was born, a passport stamped only once, and a journal.

The last entry read:

“I almost left. I didn’t. But I want her—my granddaughter—to know that I wanted more. That I believed there could be more. And maybe, one day, she’ll dig it up and finish what I started.”

I sat with her suitcase for a long time, crying into the clothes that still smelled like lavender. She had buried so much. But she left it for me, like seeds.

And now, I think, I’m ready to let them bloom.