So there I was last week, doing one of those chores you keep putting off — dusting the hallway cabinet. I pulled out the drawers to get behind them, and something caught my eye: a tiny piece of paper, yellowed at the edges, wedged into the back.

It was a note. In my grandmother’s familiar looping script, it simply said:
“Save the glass. One day you’ll know why.”

Just ten words. But they stopped me cold.

My grandma passed away four years ago, the week after Easter. Ever since then, April has felt delicate, tender. Like something inside me is still on tiptoe, not sure how to step without stumbling into sorrow.

She was the kind of woman who believed in everyday magic. Who’d spritz on a little perfume just to go outside and water her tulips. Who’d set the dining table with teacups and tiny dessert forks even if nobody was coming by. Her treasures were rarely costly — she loved anything that caught the light. Cut glass bowls, vintage platters, delicate candlesticks, mirrors that bounced the afternoon sun across the walls. “Light makes a house feel alive,” she’d say.

When we cleaned out her home, nobody really wanted the glassware. It was too mismatched, too delicate, too… old-fashioned. But I couldn’t bear to let them go. So I packed them up — every odd little dish and glittering plate. I didn’t know what I’d ever do with them. I only knew they felt like her.

And apparently, she knew I would. Because she left me that tiny message, hidden for who knows how long, waiting for me to find it exactly when I needed to.

So this month, on a slow April morning — for no reason at all except that April was already aching — I unpacked those boxes. I started stacking bowls, flipping plates, balancing little trinket dishes on top of each other, almost absentmindedly. It was like my hands were remembering something before my heart did. I kept going until it turned into… this.

A crystal tree.

Not for Christmas. Not for a birthday or Easter or any holiday. Just a tree made of all her sparkle, designed to catch the morning light in exactly the way she loved best.

I found the base by chance on Tedooo — it was an old lamp stand, listed as a “lost cause.” I messaged the seller, explaining what I was hoping to make. She wrote back,
“If it’s for someone you love, it’s never a lost cause.”
She shipped it the very next day.

I even listed a version of this crystal tree on my little shop there, thinking maybe someone else would feel what I felt. Within an hour, I had four messages. Each from someone saying it reminded them of their someone. Their mother. Their grandmother. Their sister. It was as if grief recognized itself and reached out, hand in hand.

And that’s when I realized:
This isn’t just a tree.

It’s a legacy.
It’s what it looks like when loss softens into love.
When grief quietly transforms into grace.
When April still hurts, but you choose to honor it anyway.

It’s a reminder that the people we miss most don’t ever really leave us. They keep shimmering in the corners we tuck them into. In cut glass and dancing sunbeams. In mismatched bowls stacked like tiny monuments to memory.

And sometimes — if we’re lucky — they still find ways to light up the room.