I first met my husband’s grandparents when I was just 19 years old. As we were leaving their charming century-old farmhouse, Grandpa Mike walked over to a kitchen drawer, rummaged for a moment, and then handed me something small and smooth.
“Travel safe,” he said, giving my hand a gentle pat. His hazel eyes sparkled with warmth and the kind of charm that only someone born on a holiday could possess.
I glanced down at the unremarkable rock he had placed in my palm, noticing a tiny hole that ran through it. I nodded, pretending to understand its significance, though I truly didn’t at the time.
Fast forward sixteen years. As I stood for the first time after giving birth to my daughter, two nurses supported me, and I felt as wobbly as a newborn foal. One of the nurses began to tidy up the area when something hard clattered to the floor. She picked it up and asked, “Is this yours?”
In her hand were four similar nondescript rocks, each threaded with a ribbon that looked a bit worn—perhaps even a little unclean. My excitement bubbled over as I extended my hand and exclaimed, “Yes! That’s mine!” She eyed me with curiosity, but I quickly decided against explaining their meaning, knowing she likely had little time for a lengthy story. So, I tucked the rocks away, keeping them close.
When Grandpa Mike had gifted me that first rock, my husband explained that they symbolize safe travels, a cherished belief passed down through generations in his family. Since that day, I couldn’t bear the thought of going anywhere without one. So, when my father-in-law sent me four rocks before my daughter Nora was born, I made sure to bring them to the hospital and kept them close throughout the entire experience—through the contractions, the stinging needles, and the overwhelming joy when I finally held my little miracle. It felt magical.
Recently, both of my husband’s grandparents passed away just eight days apart, a poignant coincidence as they were also born eight days apart. They shared 73 years of love, parenting two sons, and enduring the heartache of losing one. They became my grandparents, too.
In the days following Grandpa Mike’s passing, Grandma Linda began to reminisce about her lost son, a wound that never fully healed. She rarely spoke his name, and soon after, she drifted into the comforting haze of dementia. I can only imagine that on the eighth day after his death, with clarity in her mind, Grandma Linda slipped a small rock into her pocket, settling down with a sense of peace, ensuring her final journey would be safe.
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In summary, the bonds we form across generations can carry profound meanings, filled with symbols of love and protection, such as the cherished rocks that remind us of our journeys.