Just a few weeks ago, I graduated with my master’s degree in creative writing, a process that took years longer than planned as I cared for Nanna through her long battle with cancer. All our savings had gone to medical bills.
Guilt stabs me. I probably should do the practical thing and take a job that pays better than working at a local bookstore. A former classmate offered me a position as a technical writer. If I took it, I could afford the upkeep on the house without selling my grandmother’s things.
But I think my soul would die writing software instructions all day, and I fear it would be the end of my dream of becoming a novelist. My job at the bookshop doesn’t pay much, but I love it. It gives me the time and mental space to write, and I’m surrounded by inspiration all day.
I don’t have to decide my future now, I remind myself. By selling the photo, I can buy more time to write and live the life I want.
This shop had been lucky for me in the past.
Five years ago, I sold a vintage typewriter.
In return, I got a pen pal, a best friend, and a hopeless crush.
It was as if this dusty store somehow knew I needed a little magic, so it brought me Remington.
Now, here I am again, needing another miracle.
Mr. Jensen’s eyes twinkle as he pulls an envelope from a drawer. “Did you think I forgot your birthday?”
“Thank you, Mr. Jensen,” I say, both embarrassed and touched. “But you shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.”
“It’s not from me,” he says as he passes me a letter.
If it’s not from Mr. Jensen, it must be from Remington, which is a surprise since we haven’t exchanged an actual letter in years, but maybe he remembered my birthday and sent me a card. I look down at the envelope, and my breath catches.
“But—how? It’s from…” I trail off in confusion.
“Your grandmother gave this letter to me for safekeeping shortly before she passed. She wanted you to read it on your twenty-fifth birthday. I’d planned on visiting you later today, but you saved me the trip.”
I take the envelope with one hand, careful not to wrinkle it. With my free hand, I trail a reverent finger over Nanna’s elegant script, tracing the familiar loops and curls. A wave of longing to hear her voice cuts through me.
Grief is a funny thing. It’s not linear. I’ll be fine, just making my way through my day, and then a small detail that reminds me of her will grip my heart. Tasting her favorite tea. Hearing a beloved song on the radio. Seeing her familiar scrawl on an envelope.
“I can’t believe it,” I say, holding the letter tight to my heart. Part of me wants to tear it open now, to share this moment with Mr. Jensen. But another part wants to be alone when I do. I’m sure there will be tears. A fountain of them.
Mr. Jensen seems to sense my dilemma. “Open it at home, in the place your grandmother most loved,” he says. “Happy birthday, sweet Olivia.”
I say goodbye, push my way out the door in a daze, and walk the block back to my house in that lingering moment before dusk turns to twilight. Streetlamps flick on, while the last bit of light hangs stubbornly in the air.
When I get to the corner, I wait for the light to turn green and try to view my house across the street from a stranger’s perspective. What would they see? In the soft glow, the faded pink Victorian I grew up in looks like a genteel lady of a certain age, one who was once the toast of the town, but now has few prospects. Its pale-rose paint and white trim are dim and peeling, the steps sag to the left, and the large bay window in front is in need of a wash. It feels out of place now among the impeccably restored Victorians around it, a vibrant mix of family homes and locally-owned shops.
When I was young, Nanna made our house bright with laughter, a gathering place for her artist friends. They’d knock on our door at all hours, stumbling in, drunk on wine and life. She’d get to work, cooking a midnight feast. At some point, hearing the tinkle of glasses, the strain of music, I’d creep downstairs, hair in a braid, feet bare, pajamas on, and curl up in my favorite window seat in the living room, letting the voices and guitar strumming wash over me.
Now, it’s just me in the old, cluttered house echoing with too many memories. The elegant bar cart is always filled and ready, though no one comes for a party anymore. The pie cupboard with green glass and delicate china, the baskets and books, the collection of cameras and typewriters that line the built-in shelves. It’s all still there, minus the things I’ve had to sell.
I shake my head clear of the memories and cross the street.