לְיַד המיטה שֶל סבּא

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Grandpa Menachem's two grandchildren sat next to his bed.
Grandpa turned to them and said with a weak voice.
Tamar and shai, You know that I'm very sick.
It's likely that I'll die yet this week.
No, No! Said Tamar. You'll get well, I'm sure.
Tamar, my dear, I'm dying. There's nothing to do.
But, listen, When I die, you will receive a letter from me.
Seriously! How is it possible to receive mail from you--after you've died? Asked Shai.
I've already written the letters, of course.
I handed them over to Mom, Grandpa explained.
She'll hand them to you after the funeral.
Are you willing to tell us the contents of the letters now? asked Tamar.
I express the feelings of love that I feel towards you.
I tell you the hopes I have for you . . . things like that>
Clearly I could have told you now, but I wanted you to have it in writing, for ever.
That you'd be able to go back and read my thoughts again and again.
And now, forgive me, I'm very tired.
I want to rest.
Grandpa closed his eyes and fell asleep.