By Elie Najjar

Dear Grandma,

I’m not sure if the Paradise Postal Service still delivers in this country. The last few letters I sent you never made it. I saw the priest using one of them last Saturday to clean the church windows. But I’ll try again—some letters aren’t meant to be received. They’re meant to be written. I miss you, Nanny.

Do you remember Yousuf, the salesman with the red Volkswagen who came to your alley every Tuesday? He used to sell perfumes that smelled like fresh bread, brooms that lured dust like lovers, and shirts that changed colour like lizards basking on warm stones. Last week, he fell asleep at the wheel and drove into the river. Aunt Hanneh was nearby and swears the water smelled like cheap whiskey for seventeen whole minutes. The villagers used the church’s bell rope to pull him out. He lost his car—and most of his magical wares—but he’s already planning a new invention: ropes tied to sunflowers to dry laundry with the sun’s full blessing.

Grandfather sends his salutations. He’s been sleeping on the veranda ever since you left. He keeps grumbling about the feral cat that mistook his dentures for a bone and ran off with them, and about the iron gate that groans despite ten generous helpings of oil. I asked why he doesn’t sleep in your room, and he said he doesn’t have the heart to lie in your absence. He still sleeps with his socks on, though.

Marie, your old friend, has quarreled with the Eucharistic minister again. He left in a hurry with the collection plate before she could break a ten-pound note. When she confronted him after Mass, he denied the whole thing. But you know Marie—she never forgets a face, or a fiver.

My father still hasn’t accepted that he’s an orphan. Yesterday, when I asked him for money to go to the cinema, he blurted out: “Why don’t you go ask your Grandma?” The silence that followed felt heavier than the question.

Nanny, if you only knew how much I miss you. Sometimes I picture you melting into your leather armchair, your fingers dancing with the rhythm of your wrists, two needles stitching quietly by the coal fire, while yarn balls rolled across the floor like little planets. How many scarves did you think we needed? How many gloves, hats, socks, and jumpers? Your hands moved like a saint’s on a rosary—patient, precise—knitting not just wool, but our lives.

Your scarves still keep me warm on stormy nights. They wrap around me like old lullabies, softening the cold, whispering your name.

And your black purse—where is it now? That bottomless pouch of love where we could find anything: bonbons, tissues, coins, chewing gum, aspirin, bobby pins, Band-Aids, tiny sandwiches, pencils, religious icons, and always—always—love. How did you fit so much love in that purse, Gran? How wide was your heart?

Maybe this letter will drift upward like incense, find its way past church towers and laundry lines, and land softly in your lap. And maybe you’ll smile when you read it, just once more.

Forever your Little Prince,

Elie

Awarded the 2021 Jane Austen House Prize for Epistolary Writing

Some letters are not meant to be received. They are meant to be written. This one floated upward, carried by memory and love.