This letter is much different from the last letter that I wrote to you more than twenty years ago. That letter was written shortly after your death and shared at your memorial service. It was incredibly difficult for me to read it and even more difficult for me to imagine my life without you in it.
You inspired me more than you will ever know.
Because of you, I strove to hand-make everything I could for my children. I never quite mastered crocheting and knitting like you did, but instead I became a quilter and sewer. I made and designed the quilts for my own kids.
Your meals were legendary. And I have worked to match your culinary skills. Unfortunately these skills do not extend to the homemade egg noodles you always made for the post-Thanksgiving turkey soup. Instead, I do my best and cook with love.
I'm sorry that my own children never had an opportunity to enjoy spending the night with you and Poppy, watching television and eating ice cream sundaes. Know that I have passed on some of these traditions. We have our own family movie nights with a smorgasbord of junk food and ice cream with Hershey's Syrup.
You may be gone, but you'll never be forgotten. Your afghans are still held dear. And more than you'll ever know, you helped shape the woman I have become.