After Grandpa died, Grandma didn’t cry — not even at his funeral. Calm and peaceful, she said, “He told me not to cry. He’d find a way to make me smile again.”
I didn’t understand how she could smile without him. She stayed composed, even joked that he’d hate all the attention.
A week later, I visited. The house still smelled of lavender and old books. When I asked how she really was, she smiled and said, “He’s been sending me signs.” She told me about a note he left long ago: “If you ever miss me, look for my signs. I’ll make you smile — always.” She found their song on the radio, a daisy out of season, even a heart-shaped cloud.
Then one morning, his old pocket watch — silent for years — ticked again at 6:17, their wedding date. “He told me not to cry,” she said.
Months passed. Sundays were for her stories — wartime letters, kitchen dances, stolen cookies. I saw a love that even death didn’t break.
One rainy afternoon, I found her laughing in the garden under a rainbow over their house. “He did it again,” she whispered. That night, she passed peacefully.
On her nightstand was the pocket watch, still at 6:17, and a not