My eighty-seven-year-old father waved a greeting card over his shoulder one summer afternoon. “All those letters I sent your grandmother are up in the garage.”

I raised my eyebrows. “I didn’t know you had them. Should I get ‘em down?”

“Not now.”

I recalled his casual comments about writing to Nana every day while he was in the Army. She had been a sentimental saver. My dad and mom were too.

Dubbed “Papa and Gram” following the arrival of grandchildren, my parents had amassed two file cabinets full of greeting cards and mementoes. An array of manila folders, labeled in Papa’s perfect handwriting, peppered our laps and the living room floor. A brother, his two prepubescent daughters, Papa, Gram and I perused the folders’ contents. Birthday and holiday cards, get-well wishes and retirement congratulations painted snapshots of the previous years.

Papa died sixteen months later. The letters he had sent Nana sat untouched in the rafters for another year-and-a-half. Then, after Gram moved into a senior living community, six of my siblings and I gathered to clear out the family home. The box of letters made the cut, and I carried them into Gram’s two-bedroom apartment that evening.

During my overnight visits with her throughout the next eighteen months, we reveled in those letters.

Penned by eighteen-and nineteen-year-old Private—and later Private First Class—Dan Antonietti, the careful cursive portrayed a son and brother’s loving devotion. Every missive also acknowledged his Butte, Montana neighbors.

Sprinkled throughout were mentions of his fierce bonds with his cohorts and dog.

Papa Dan’s love, loyalty and generous spirit blossomed as he became an uncle, husband, father and grandfather. On quiet evenings when Gram and I devoured his letters, we basked in memories of his attentiveness and grace.

Four-and-a-half years have passed since we lost our Papa. Gram is in her third apartment in the senior living community, having segued from independent living to assisted living to memory care. Outside her door, a picture of her and Papa complements her biography.

Sometimes she remembers Papa is gone, other times she does not. But the picture—which she often refers to as “our first date”—always makes her smile.