The Pocketbook

It started with the simple act of cleaning out a closet. Tucked behind a stack of sweaters, I found one of my Grandmother’s old pocketbooks. The kind with a soft clasp and a lining that had seen years of living. Inside: a faded bank pen, a single Halls lozenge (that likely tasted like pennies), a crumpled Kleenex with her lipstick pressed faintly on the edge (though most were up her sleeve), and a wrapped candy that was certainly meant to be loudly unwrapped in a church pew that next Sunday. That familiar scent, her scent, still lingered. And just like that, I was no longer standing in my bedroom. I was back beside her, hearing her laugh, remembering the warmth of her hand.

Grief has a way of surprising us. It hides in the ordinary corners of life a scent, a song, a small forgotten object. And yet, in those moments of ache, there is also something sacred. A reminder that love leaves traces everywhere it’s been. Footprints that prove the existence of something so beautiful.

At Gateway Home, we see every day the way love does not end, only changes shape. The way a quiet touch, Grandma's crocheted blanked, a family picture at the beach, or a chocolate chip cookie baked just so holds all the tenderness words cannot quite capture.

There is beauty in grief, if we let ourselves see it. It’s the proof of how deeply we’ve loved. In the stillness, in the remembering, in the smallest things love remains.