I was just scrolling through my old Facebook, you know, the way you do when you can't sleep and it’s two in the morning, and I stumbled on these posts from when I was, what, fifteen? Sixteen? Just a kid. And man, the DRAMA. Like, it was all these song lyrics, really angsty stuff about heartbreak, about how my world was ending because some boy didn’t like me back or whatever. And I remember feeling it so intensely back then, like every single word was the absolute truth of my existence. It felt so monumental, like it was going to define me. Is that weird? Does everyone feel this? But seeing it now, all those declarations of eternal suffering, it just hit me like a ton of bricks. Because that’s not what defined me at all. What defined me, what really sticks in my gut, is something completely different. Something I barely ever think about, something I’ve kept locked away so deep I almost forgot it existed. But seeing those silly lyrics, it opened a door, you know? It was right after I graduated college, before I moved to the city. I was still living at home, working this dead-end retail job to save up. And my grandmother, she was getting really frail. She’d always been this force of nature, always in charge, always baking, always telling me what to do. But she was fading. And one day, she asked me to help her sort through some things in her attic. She had this old cedar chest, filled with all these beautiful linens she’d embroidered herself, some from when she was just a girl in Italy. Tablecloths, doilies, even some baby blankets. Delicate, intricate work. She wanted me to have them. Said they were too good to just stay in the attic. And I remember looking at them, all those hours of her life stitched into that fabric. And I was so… bored. That’s the awful truth. I was so wrapped up in my own plans, my own excitement about moving, about getting my first real marketing job, that I just couldn't bring myself to care. I probably nodded, said "oh, these are beautiful, Nonna," but my mind was already on the next thing. What I was going to wear to a party, how much rent I was going to have to pay, you know, just my own stupid young-person stuff. I told her I’d take them, but I never did. She asked again, a few weeks later. "Did you get the linens from the chest, cara?" she said, her voice a bit weaker that time. And I just made some excuse. "Oh, I'm just so busy with work, Nonna, I'll get to it this weekend." But I didn't. I went out with friends. I went to the beach. I went to a concert. All the things you do when you're twenty-two and feel like the world is your oyster. Then she got sick, really suddenly. And she was gone. Just like that. And I remember standing in her house after the funeral, all the family milling around, and I saw that cedar chest, still in the attic, just as I’d left it. And the guilt… it hit me like a physical blow. Those beautiful things, her legacy, her story, waiting for me, and I was too self-absorbed, too caught up in my own tiny dramas, to even bother. It just sits there, you know? That feeling. Like a stone in my stomach. I’m sixty-one now. My kids are grown, doing their own things. I’m thinking about retirement, about what I’ve actually done with my life. And those stupid song lyrics from high school, they just remind me of all the little heartbreaks I thought were so massive at the time. All the petty things I spent my energy on. And the truly important stuff, the quiet moments, the simple acts of love and connection, I just… missed it. I just let it slide right past me. Does everyone have something like that? Something they regret not doing, not paying attention to, when they had the chance? Because it just feels so heavy sometimes. All these years later, and I can still picture those delicate stitches, the smell of cedar, her frail hand reaching out. And I just… I don't know. I feel like I failed her. And maybe myself too. Like what good is all the success, all the busy-ness, if you miss the real stuff? What if that was the most important thing I ever had to do, and I just blew it?