Thwack! The 5 x 7 wooden picture frame fell from my desk onto the growing pile of garbage on the floor of my home office. One of the slats popped off. Just as well. There was no photo inside—the old box frame had belonged to my grandmother, Bom Bom, and it had started falling apart years ago. I should have tossed it earlier, but I couldn’t. It reminded me of her.
It was May 10th, Bom Bom’s birthday, the first since she’d passed away the previous summer. I wanted nothing more than to call her and tell her how much I loved her on her special day. That’s why I was cleaning—to distract myself. I was finally sorting through the bags my husband, Paul, and I had salvaged from Bom Bom’s apartment.
Bom Bom grew up in the Great Depression, but she was as generous with her heart as she was with her gifts. She never had much money, but she always gave what she could to mark special occasions. That old wooden frame? An anniversary gift—she’d put a picture of me and Paul on our wedding day inside. When the slats started coming loose, I took the photo out for safekeeping and asked Paul to repair the frame. He never got around to it.
Tears welled up in my eyes. Time to let it go, I thought bitterly. I collapsed on the floor next to the pile of garbage, crying. The broken frame was a perfect metaphor for my broken heart. Bom Bom was gone.
I turned to grab another trash bag. Hmm, what’s that? I thought. When the frame hit the pile and the slat popped off, the cardboard backing had come loose. Now I could see something was written on it. I pulled the cardboard out.
“To Paul and Dee,” I read. It was Bom Bom’s handwriting. Taped to the cardboard were three $100 dollar bills!
I laughed. Bom Bom had saved her biggest gift for last—at the moment I needed to hear from her most.
