By Amy Keyes 
One of the greatest gifts in my life is that I can still go back. Go back to visit my parents in their seventh decade of life. Go back to the magic of the tree-lined streets of my childhood, whose roots are seeped in memories. Go back to the childhood home that paved 18 years of stepping stones guiding me into the life I live. Go back to the fireplace mantle lined with aged photographs of my heritage.
I can’t remember a time I have gone back when I didn’t linger in the wonder of those photos on the mantle and marvel at the wonder of the long lineage of strong women I come from. Faces of the past, frozen in time. Glimpses of decades of the women who raised my parents. A peek at the lives of my ancestors before they became my grandparents—some of them even before they were parents themselves. And in those photos, I see all of the gifts of time unfold.
My heart stops when I see my Grandma Sylvia whose cancer took her from us when I was too young to ever get to know her in the way I dreamt of. Her beautiful smile shines through the picture frame, capturing a moment so beautiful and fleeting as she posed with me on the park roundabout. Her eyes lit up with the joy of our visit. Rosy-cheeked and free.
And even though I must have only been five or six, I remember it all. Holding her hand as we walked to get a scoop of Rocky Road Ice Cream on a sugar cone—the kind my parents never let me have. Filling up the bathtub to the top. The bedtime story she read to me at the only sleepover I remember having with her. And while sometimes it breaks me that I never got to grow up with her, I know I carry so much of her with me. Because she passed it on to my dad, and in turn, he passed it on to me. Her free spirit. The twinkle in her eye. The compassionate heart that I will always remember.
Another step over and I see my great-grandma, May, who died when I was too young to really remember the visits to her Chicago home. But somehow my heart has stored that piece of the past. I see her so clearly. Her tiny stature and white hair, wearing a smile on her beautiful face. A time in my story when she would sneak me a box of raisins out of her apron pocket and give me a wink. And I know, from her, I have inherited my own premature head of gray, 4’10 frame, and love of raisins. But the best gift of all that she shared with the world was my grandma.
My Grandma Ethel, known through the years as Grams and GG. With her small, bony hands that loved to hold my own. Her Bob Dylan haircut she never let go uncolored or unset, with her seemingly bi-weekly trips to the beauty shop. My Grams with her love of classical music, opera, traveling, and reading. She lived her life so fully even after my grandpa died at an age too young for them to live the dreams they had mapped out together. We talked every week even when her mind was too cloudy to recall my name.
I saw her almost every Sunday until college, and later, my career took me too far for those regular visits. And while our visits became less frequent, they never became less special. She called me Dolly, fed me stale Matt’s Cookies, and always sent me off with something from her home for myself or our boys. Our bond was one of the ages and there is not a day that goes by that I don’t miss her.
The gifts I have inherited from her could overflow even an ocean. A passion for travel, reading, and music. Decades of memories rooted in love, and photographs that fill my heart and albums. The privilege of watching someone grow old even in the hardest parts. And most importantly, the gift of my own mom.
The women on that fireplace mantle are the foundation of the incredible gift of watching my own mom be a grandma. Affectionately known as Grammy or Gaga, depending on which grandchild you are talking to. She loves her grandchildren as deeply and fully as anyone can love.
Though our lives have taken my sisters and me too far to spend weekly family dinners with her grandchildren, spectate their sports on a regular basis, or enjoy weekly sleepovers where she can fill the bathtub to the top, she is the north star to all of them.
She has built traditions that make all of the moments special and full. Passing along the gift of embracing quality over quantity. She never misses a chance to celebrate the little moments that make their lives special even if she can’t be a part of them herself. Bestowing me with the gift of perspective. She spoils them not with things, but with experiences that are helping to shape her grandchildren into the kind of people we all wish the world had more of. And with that, comes the gift of knowing my own children will carry forward pieces of her for the rest of their lives.
As that fireplace mantle continues to grow with the faces of strong women for generations to come, I only hope that someday my own grandchildren will linger just a little while as they walk by, to marvel at the gifts passed down from the women who came before.
by Alexis Linehan 
by Emily Roussell 
by Shannon Armenis 
