Wrapped in Love

The snow falls gently tonight,

soft as the melodies of Dolly and Johnny,

their voices weaving through the room

as they always did—

the soundtrack to sand tarts in the oven,

mac and cheese for Christmas dinner,

rummy cards spread across the table,

and quiet evenings spent piecing puzzles together.

Your hands, once steady,

moved slower now,

guiding each fragment

with tired grace.

I didn’t think, then,

that this would be the last puzzle

we would ever share.

Through my camera lens,

I captured the four of you:

your hands, my sister’s,

my niece’s small fingers,

and Pappy’s steady grip.

What began as a photography class assignment

to capture holiday traditions

became so much more—

a memory pressed in time,

a portrait of love and loss

that I would return to again and again.

After you were gone,

I held on to what I could—

the sand tarts we baked together,

the sound of quarters jingling in an old film container

as you fueled “just one more try”

at the claw machine,

the bowl of Lipton soup

you’d cool with ice cubes

when I was sick.

And the card.

The last birthday card you gave me,

I carry with me still,

tucked in its envelope,

the back scrawled with scores of our final rummy game,

$30 inside, untouched.

Spending it would feel like a final goodbye.

When the end came,

I wasn’t there.

The world had pulled me too far away.

My goodbye came through a screen

as my mom held your lifeless hand.

I whispered,

“I love you, Nana,”

hoping my words could still find you,

somewhere beyond the cold stillness.

For days after, that final puzzle sat unfinished.

It felt wrong to move the pieces

without you there.

But one night, my sister and I returned to it,

our hands trembling,

as yours once did.

Piece by piece,

we filled the empty spaces.

When the last fragment clicked into place,

I could almost hear your voice,

soft, steady,

“You finished it, girls.”

Now, Dolly and Johnny sing on,

their voices like a thread pulling me back to you.

You are here,

in the quarters I press into my nieces’ hands

for toys they don’t need,

in the comfort of soup on a cold day,

in the mac and cheese I make each Christmas,

alone but in your memory.

You are here,

in the “Nana” necklace I wear on your birthday,

in the gold bracelet that never leaves my wrist—

not in the shower,

not in bed,

not for a single moment.

The snow falls endlessly,

but inside, the warmth lingers—

in the cookies,

the puzzles,

the wrapping paper you once collected,

trash bag in hand,

smiling as we tore through gifts,

gathering the mess

as if every scrap

was a treasure.

You are here,

in every tradition woven into my heart.

Though winter presses close,

your memory keeps me warm,

guiding me through the snow,

through the cold,

wrapped in a well-worn coat of love.