The other day my favorite aunt who also happens to be my godmother sent me a thick package through airmail. Coming from one country to another it was inevitable that its outward appearance be as it was. Meaning it was battered, bent, ripped and handled by some greasy hands. However, the permanent ink stayed true and bore the beacon of my address proudly. I love packages.

Inside, wrapped in a plastic casing were reprints of old, old pictures of my great-grandparents and grandparents. She knew I had a longing to see how they looked like, to know what their stories were, and to connect with them in a tangible way. Although I had grown up in the loving arms of both my grandfather and grandmother (from my mother’s side) I was taken away when I was four to join my mother in this country and even then they were old. The next time and last time I saw my grandmother I was five years older and my grandfather had passed away. I was too young to sit and listen to tales. Too many years had passed between us, and although I was her favorite grandchild, we were strangers.

Now as I write this, it has been two years since my grandmother has passed away and I look upon their young, smiling faces in regret. I have not heard their stories first hand, but through my godmother, who hands them to me eagerly because it is her hope that their story will be told. I have my doubts whether or not I will do a good job, or even a decent telling, but I will write what I can, write what I know, tell what has touched me and hopefully do it all before the next generation goes away without having known themselves.