The 8 Magic Things of Life

The first letter came exactly 88 days after Nan passed.

I don’t know if she planned it that way, or if it was just a coincidence. But I liked to think it was her way of letting me know she was still here, that she could still see me and watch over me. We’d always said 8 was our magic number. Mostly because both of our birthdays were on Lion’s Gate – August 8th.

The truth is, I was shocked to get a letter at all. Nan preferred to say things face to face. She had no patience for letter writing. And even though she knew how to use email and text, she wouldn’t do it often if she could just call someone on the phone.

“Too easy to misconfuckle things between two people,” she’d say, purposely being vulgar to get a laugh out of me.

In the last year, though, after she’d gotten sick, she never had to email me or text me. I’d broken my lease and moved in to take care of her until…well, until I didn’t have to any longer. Until the end.

She fought me hard on it, but I transferred all my college classes online so I could be around to help her. We had a nurse who stopped by three times a week, but that was mostly just to take her vitals and get a sense of how she was doing.

She was still feisty, right until the very last week. Her dark hair had gone white, and she kept it cut short because she wanted to “look like a magical pixie or some shit.” I spent most of my time at home with her. It wasn’t that she was that sick, not in the beginning. It’s just, when death is playing hide and seek, you’re more careful of where you’re looking, where you're going. In case you're found.

The letter sits atop our old oak table in the kitchen. It’s my favorite room in the house. When I was little, Nan would wake up early every Sunday, just to make a big homemade breakfast for the two of us. Fresh biscuits, delicious peppered sausage gravy, and fried potatoes from the garden with some fresh fruit from her neighbor, Bill. He always brought over the wild cherries because he knew they were my favorite.

There are still marks on the table from when I was five and scratched it with the edge of my fork. I’d tried to spell my name but I had no idea how to write Elizabeth yet. So I’d just drawn a bunch of lines one after the other, pretending I was claiming something grand by putting my name on it. I’d gotten scolded, sent to my room without the chance to play outside that day. Of course, we’d laughed about it after I’d grown up. She even started calling it Lizzy’s table.

That’s how the letter starts. Talking about my table.

Dear Lizzy,

I know you’re sitting at Lizzy’s table reading this. I picture you running your fingers over your lines, an ache in your chest. It’s been a while since I’ve been gone, hasn’t it, my girl? And I bet you’re missing me something fierce. Well, you should. I was pretty damn awesome in my old age, if I say so myself. And I do say so.

I laugh through my tears. Even after she’s gone, she’s still sassy. God, I miss her.

Did you laugh? I bet you did. That's good. You need more laughter, honey.

I think about the last night we had.

It was a Thursday, because we’d just watched Grey’s Anatomy. She had a crush on Hunt. And Jackson. “When I go, I hope heaven has men that look like them. Because otherwise Lord, just send me down below cause it ain't worth it,” she’d said, cackling.

Now we’ve got to get you doing something more adventurous. That’s right, Lizzy. I have a plan for you. Now, you gave up your life for me for a whole year. And I love you for it. You’re the strongest person I know, because of all the loss you’ve had. And even in the face of all your grief, even when your parents died, you still smiled. You still stood, unwavering in unique power. That Lizzyness that makes you, you.

A few weeks before the end, she’d started busting my balls about going out more. Even though she knew she was dying. I think she thought somehow it would help. But all I wanted was to hold on to every memory, every laugh, every conversation, every strand of us so that it never unraveled.

You are my person, Lizzy. You’re the Yang to my Grey. And I know you miss me. But it’s time to live. It’s time to find your person. And Lizzy, it’s time to find yourself.

There are 8 things I want for you, my girl.

Love, health, happiness, exploration, faith, family, art, and purpose.

So, you will be getting 7 more letters from me. Each one will have a destination and an experience for you. No, stop shaking your head. You’re going. That’s your gift to me. That’s how you keep me alive.

Nan always had a special way of guilting me into things. But I did it out of love. Even when I pretended to hate the things she asked of me. But this, this scared me.

This first letter is for art. It contains a check for you and a reservation at a hotel in Paris. The check is for your airfare and food and traveling costs. The room is already paid for and the reservation is open-ended. Once you get there, you’ll get an itinerary from your host. But I'm going to go ahead and tell you that you'll be going to see the Louvre for both of us.

"Oh, Nan," I say out loud, my voice thick with emotion. I'd always wanted to go to Paris. From the time I was little, I dreamed of going to the Louvre Museum and the Eiffel Tower.

I unfold the paper that is still in the envelope. In there is a check for $5,000 and the brochure for a beautiful suite in the 7th Arrondissement near the Champs de Mars.

During all of your journeys, you’ll take 8 photos every day and mail them to [email protected]. Trust me, it will lead you somewhere amazing.

I know this was always your dream, my girl. And now I want you to go live it. I want you to find those 8 things, those magic things that make life worth living. I had all those, and so many of them involved you. And now I want you to find them and someone to share them with.

Love you 8 billion times,

Nan