I first met my husband’s grandparents when I was just 19 years old. As we departed their century-old farmhouse, Grandpa Mike approached a kitchen drawer, rummaged through it, and handed me a small, unassuming rock.
“Travel safe,” he said, patting my hand, his bright blue eyes sparkling with a warmth that only someone born on St. Patrick’s Day could possess.
Looking down at the plain stone with a hole running through it, I nodded as if I understood its significance, although at that moment, I truly didn’t.
Fast forward sixteen years. Two nurses are assisting me as I attempt to stand for the first time after giving birth to my daughter. I feel as unsteady as a newborn calf when one nurse accidentally drops something hard on the floor. She bends down and retrieves it.
“Is this yours?” she asks, holding up four of those same unremarkable rocks, each threaded with a ribbon. They looked a bit worn and perhaps even a little unsanitary.
With excitement, I exclaim, “Yes! That’s mine!” She raises an eyebrow, puzzled by my enthusiasm. I quickly consider how busy she must be and decide that explaining the significance of the rocks would take too long. So, I simply tuck them away.
On the day Grandpa Mike gifted me that initial rock, my husband explained that it symbolizes safe travels, a cherished belief passed down through his family. Since then, I’ve taken one on every journey, so when my father-in-law sent me four before Nora was born, I made sure to bring them to the hospital. I held onto those rocks throughout the entire experience—through the pain of contractions, the sting of needles, and the overwhelming joy as I welcomed my daughter into the world. It was nothing short of magical.
Sadly, my husband’s grandparents recently passed away, only eight days apart. What’s even more remarkable is that they were also born just eight days apart. They shared 73 wonderful years together, raising two sons and enduring the heartache of losing one. They embraced me as their own, becoming my grandparents, too.
In the days following Grandpa Mike’s death, Grandma Laura began reminiscing about her lost son. She had never fully recovered from that tragedy and rarely spoke his name. Eventually, she drifted into the sometimes comforting haze of dementia, and I can’t blame her.
I can just picture Grandma Laura on that eighth day, with clarity after years in a fog, slipping a small, unremarkable rock into her pocket. She lies down, reflecting on that last bit of magic flowing through the rock, ensuring her final journey would be safe.
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In summary, this story beautifully illustrates how the bonds we share with our loved ones transcend time and space, connecting generations through symbols of love and protection.
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