I never knew either of my grandmothers. Both died when my parents were young. My mom remembered just snatches about hers, a sunshine yellow dress, a dance together in the hallway, her mother patting her to sleep at night. We have photos of that laughing, vibrant young woman named Selma, but not a single letter to hear her voice. Not one.
In their absence, in place of the bubbling words she might have written, I offer a pictorial tribute to my grandmother Selma and her BFF Myra, along with the suggestion that you drop a letter in the mail to one of your good friends. Because our voices are important.