A bulky package arrived in the mail the weekend my mom and a few of my siblings were visiting. One glance at the return address revealed the package was from my cousin, Margaret.

Inside were dozens of pictures and letters that once belonged to her mom who passed away last year. Her mom, our Aunt Kathy, was a vivacious, beautiful woman who lit up life. She died much too young and suddenly from idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, a disease of the lungs that’s cruel and for which there’s currently no cure.

Margaret’s note inside the package said she was sending pictures and letters to cousins she thought would like to get their pictures and letters back.  We immediately poured the contents of the package out onto the middle of the kitchen table and eagerly rummaged through the pile.

These old letters and pictures were a roadmap through time, beginning with my parents’ wedding in 1954. Almost everybody in the photos has passed away, but I had a memory with every one of the people in those black-and-white prints.

One picture was of me next to my grandmother and her car bearing the logo of the newspaper my grandparents owned, the Bi-City Banner in Bridge City, Texas. My mom said I loved going on newspaper errands with my grandmother, but this was the first time I’d ever seen the newspaper’s car from those days.

One of my favorite pictures was of my dad and Aunt Kathy dancing. When Jimmy and Kathy were young, they’d enter dancing contests to pick up extra change. Both were outstanding dancers, especially the twist and the jitterbug, and they won every contest they entered.

For all of their lives, whenever there was a celebration, Jimmy and Kathy would invariably end up on the dance floor, dancing without a care in the world.

My youngest brother inherited my dad’s panache for the dance floor; and whenever he’s jitterbugging or waltzing, it’s like watching my father all over again.

Although most of the contents were pictures, there were a few letters, and I loved seeing my dad’s bold and distinctive handwriting again, especially on a postcard postmarked Atlantic City 1954 when my dad was on his way to the wedding.

I didn’t know he’d come through Atlantic City on his way from Louisiana to New York, and the postcard added another facet to my dad’s history.

One of the oldest letters in the stack was a letter postmarked 1958. The letter, written in faded blue ink, was to my father from one of his long-time friends, Gene.

I remember my dad talking about Gene, and it was strange to see this letter written in an old-fashioned script, describing the young family my dad and mom were raising.

There were two letters I’d written to my aunt over the years, one from 1963 and another one from 1964.  I definitely don’t remember writing those letters, and I barely recognized my own handwriting.

I was surprised to know she hung on to letters a young girl had written to her 40 years ago. I knew how important she was to me, but I underestimated how important I was to her.

That’s what this package of old, faded letters and pictures were – a reminder that family ties aren’t just sentiments we talk about at funerals or reunions. They’re important when they’re forged, fade as we weave in and out of each others’ lives and finally become priceless when one is no longer around to say the words “I love you.”

Luckily, those letters and photos say it all.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.