One Last Time

Dappled sunlight reflected through the coloured glass panels of the conservatory. Books sat, piled in impossibly high mounds. Papers were strewn haphazardly about, a single clean path set out between the door and my Aunt’s writing desk. Nothing here seemed out of place, nothing would have told the truth.

An abandoned teacup left rings on the manuscript pages waiting for editing. Fountain pens stuck out from strange places, all temporally lost, eager to be found once more. A fine layer of dust had settled over her computer, proof that its user was absent. Only I knew that she wasn’t to return.

I sat down in her chair, a beat-up old thing draped in layers of blankets, throws and pillows. It was a microcosm of her life, each layer placed when the one before had worn too thin to remain cosy. Feeling my breath hitch, I set the black notebook down. A fresh wave of pain rolled off me, swallowing me like whole. I gasped, tears beginning to spill.

Looking down, I focused on the note taped on the notebook’s cover.

Elise. Open me when you’re ready.

The memorial had come, and the hordes of fans were creating a circus out of my Aunt’s day. Faces all flashed together, an ocean of bodies held back by security. Cars were checked before being allowed in; names ticked off a list.

I stood by the chapel door; her black notebook clutched in my hands.

She’s told me, back on that final day in her garden, how this was all going to play out.

“I don’t own my words, my worlds. You know this. But that’s ok, it’s a part of being a writer. They’ll be there, trying to be a part of it all.”

I remember the lines on her face, a roadmap of every high and low, every war won, and battle lost. She looked old, and for the first time in my life I realized she was. All our decades together, all the memories gathered between us. Auntie had run out of time.

“I want you to say something, on the day. Stand up and say your truth.”

She reached over a wiped the single tear rolling down my cheek. Like a drop of dew, it glistened on her finger.

“Cry, laugh. Don’t fear what you might feel. Grief isn’t just one thing.”

Family and friends moved past, all full of emotion. I nodded, hugged some, smiled at others. As asked, those invited had honoured Aunt’s wishes. “No black,” she’s said. “My life was all about colour. I won’t let my funeral be so bland.”

Sucking in all the air I could manage, I pulled the elastic band back, letting the overstuffed notebook flop open. Unlike all the other notebooks Auntie had used throughout her career, this one wasn’t about one of her stories. This tome wasn’t beholden to secrets of her fantastic worlds, proof of her process or every retroactive mistake. This notebook, the black leather scratched and tapped back together, was different.

An envelope was wedged right in the middle, sticking right up into the air. I could see her scrolling cursive handwriting on the front, to my favourite niece.

I lifted it out, feeling the wax seal on the back, rubbing my fingers over the indents made by her pen. As if by design, Auntie’s letter opener was waiting, right on top of the pile of papers to my right. I sliced the letter open, hearing the rip of the thick weave.

Inside was a single page, the message shorter than I’d expected.

To Elise. If everything played out correctly, I’ve already said my piece to you, in person. If not, I’ll keep the platitudes short. You have been a special spark in my life…

I hear my name called out by the celebrant. I’m back in my body, my butterfly thoughts flown without me. I’d missed the platitudes, all the talk of her accomplishments, her endeavours. Her success hadn’t made her who she was to me.

The short walk to the podium feels endless, feeling the eyes of all assembled digging into my back. Auntie’s notebook is still sealed, my own notes wedged under the elastic.

Public speaking had only ever gone one of two ways for me, exactly to plan or a literal dumpster fire. Images of Christmas long past flash in my mind, Auntie watching me at one of my heavily planned “let’s all have a great day” lectures. I remember a much younger her, holding in her giggles as I made a fool my myself and lose my temper for cousins’ distractions.

This moment had throwbacks to then. When you’re from of a mixed Chinese family, no other crowd could feel bigger than when we were all together. I tried to hold onto that idea. No matter how multicultural our family became, no matter how different we looked, there was a place for us.

“Hannah Winter knew me her whole life. And she was my favourite person in the world.”

I remember Auntie’s words in my ear when she handed over her notebook.

“This is for you. And I’ll be there, cheering you on.”

In this notebook you’ll find a special gift. But in return, you have to promise me you’ll only use it unwisely. Nothing too grown up. I’ve made other assurances, don’t worry. This one is for all the old times, all the holidays we spent together. It’ll be right at the back.

I set the letter aside.

Sunlight bounces off the pages and I flip through them. Only after a few moments do I realize what’s here. Her life, laid out in thoughts, messages, doodles. Post-it notes of reminders, appointments, lists she forgot to finish. Single line ideas surrounded with question marks, years before anyone else would read what they became. Illustrations of her tattoos, long before she got them.

A double page of life plans, all the things she wished could happen to her. Whole careers not taken, children she planned but didn’t have. Elaborate timelines traced projects never finished.

The time she wrote a letter following her cousin’s suicide. I was too you back then to remember specifics, but here it was, her pain, her grief. Talking to me through time.

“I remember the first time Auntie took me with her to New York. Her second book tour and she’d wanted a companion. I didn’t tell her at the time, but that trip meant the world to me.” I let my tears fall as I spoke, unashamed to show my emotions to the crowd. “I’d just finished high school and it…” I choked, “It was the start of my love of travelling.”

I kept going, talking of the second, third, tenth trip we took. All my memories spilled out through my words, just the way Auntie had taught me. I stopped checking my notes, just let time pass freely through me.

People laughed, smiled, remembered her and her life.

Just like she’d written, I found it right on the last page of her notebook. She’d tapped a photo of us, from way back. I must have been eight or nine, dressed in my red Chinese cheongsam, her arm casually resting on my head. It must have been from a Chinese New Year dinner, one of the many over the years. We were both smiling, exactly the same smile.

Slipped in behind it was a check. As I read the amount I audibly gasped, utterly overwhelmed.

$20,000. Written out to me. With a small caption on the bottom.

One last trip on me. And have fun.