now and then

NOW

Today is a lot of things.

For one, it’s Halloween.

Two, it’s also my birthday.

And three, it’s going to be the day I have to say goodbye to my Grandma.

It won’t be easy. These things never are. But I know she’ll do everything in her power to make it just a little bit better for me.

I roll out of bed, slow to pull the curtains back. I look outside, at the trees bare of leaves, at the sky as gloomy and grey as a headache, and think of her.

She loves this time of year, when night falls early and when the winds change. She says she waits all year long for this season, the best season, because she loves a good storm. She loves classic monster movies, like The Crawling Eyeball and Creature from the Black Lagoon. She loves pumpkin spice coffee and decorating for trick or treaters. But most of all, she says she loves this season because it brought her me.

I just want this day to be over, and with it, this damn season.

I get dressed and take my time going down the stairs, not wanting to reach the bottom step, at least not yet. Because I know that when I do reach the bottom step, I will be in the kitchen. And in the kitchen on the table there will be a cardboard box. And on top of that cardboard box there will be a message written in her handwriting. And that message will say:

To my Baby Boo! Love Grandma

I don’t want to open that box.

I know what’s inside.

And I’m not ready to say goodbye.

THEN

Let’s get one thing straight: my birth was a surprise. Grandma doesn’t just call me “Boo!” for nothing. I think “oopsie baby,” is the correct term for kids like me.

Mom always says I am her greatest gift, but I know better than that. Does your greatest gift hurl you into debt before you’ve even had the chance to make any money? Does your greatest gift force you to drop out of high school and start waiting tables at the Grub Hub? Does your greatest gift shove you into adulthood well before you’re even old enough to drink, let alone vote?

No, I don’t think it does.

And so while Mom worked her ass off, there was Grandma.

Grandma dropped everything and moved back down just to take care of me, to raise me, so Mom could work and go back to school.

All my favorite memories and all my favorite things—the beautiful, the sweet, and everything worth remembering— have my Grandma in them.

Cocoa Puffs for breakfast. Bougainvillea in the backyard. Braids through my hair, French and Dutch. All the Disney princesses, every single one (her favorite was Snow White, mine was Belle). Sitting in the patio watching the doves. Carving the pumpkins she grew. Eating orange macaroni shells. Hating school. Hating sports. Hating my classmates. Hating being hated. But Grandma loving me.

Always, Grandma loving me.

And then of course there were the books.

It didn’t matter what I was going through or what happened that day, Grandma always ended each night reading me a story.

On the nights when Mom couldn’t make it home, Grandma would read The Runaway Bunny and tell me no matter how far apart Mom and I were, she’d always find her way back to me.

On nights when I wanted to grow up and do “big girl” things, Grandma would read me Where the Wild Things Are and tell me one day I would sail away, far away, and get to do whatever I wanted with my life.

On nights when I wondered about my father, if I even had one or not, Grandma would read The Giving Tree and tell me that her and Mom would give me anything and everything I could ever need.

These stories became so much more than just words or pictures on a page. These stories became hope.

And magic.

And love.

So much love.

These stories were everything Grandma believed in.

So I believed in them too.

As I got older, Grandma stopped reading me books and instead we read our own books together in the living room. Grandma would sit in her leather La-Z-Boy and pick a paperback from one of her three towering bookshelves. She had so many books with spines in so many colors, I would sometimes pretend to be Belle, dancing in her magical library.

And so each night after dinner Grandma would read her classics and I would curl up on the couch with any mystery book I could get my hands on. In the early days I devoured each and every one of the Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, and Goosebumps books. When I became of “of age” (according to Grandma) I discovered Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, and the great Stephen King.

Each horror was a thrill, each secret left me spooked, and I couldn’t get enough of these bizarre tales.

Then one day I stumbled upon the greatest mystery of all.

Grandma was sick.

She would not be getting better.

We had only a year left at most, the doctor had said.

And I wondered, truly wondered, where had all the hope and magic and love gone?

NOW

When I reach the bottom of the staircase, I see the big cardboard box sitting there on the kitchen table, waiting for me.

Mom is standing beside the table and asks if I’m ready.

I don’t answer her. She doesn’t expect me to.

But she does wrap her arms around me, whispers something I need to hear, then heads to work. She knows I want to open this box alone.

And so I do.

Slowly, gently, I slice open the taped sides, making sure not to cut through Grandma’s handwriting on the top. When all four flaps are properly released, I pull them back, and look inside.

And there they are. All 18 of them.

18 books for my 18th birthday.

They’re beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Each book is bent, bruised, and used in a way only a loved book can be. Each cover is torn and tattered from the many times it was opened, referenced, and read.

Read by Grandma.

Picked by Grandma.

And given to me.

18 books for my 18th birthday.

I reach inside and pick up the book on top, Mrs. Dalloway. Then, when I am ready, I open the cover, turn to the first page, and prepare to say goodbye to Grandma.

THEN

Grandma was gone the season before my 13th birthday. I dreaded fall and everything that came with it. I didn’t think I could take the changing leaves, stormy nights, or wild winds without her.

Halloween was near, which meant my birthday was near.

I was so afraid to face that day without her, when I had spent every other birthday before with her. And only her.

What was there to celebrate without her?

But then, on the morning of my 13th birthday, the strangest thing happened.

I woke up, trudged downstairs, and there, sitting front and center on the kitchen table, was a cardboard box addressed to me. I recognized Grandma’s handwriting immediately. Her message read:

To my Baby Boo! Love Grandma

I remember thinking how could this be? Grandma was gone, yet here she was.

Curious, I cut open the box and peered inside.

And there they were. All 13 of them.

13 books for my 13th birthday. I recognized some of the spines right away from Grandma’s collection: To Kill a Mockingbird, The Outsiders, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.

I nearly collapsed right there— how had she done it? How had she managed to make that day not the second worst day of my life.

I took the box up to my room and thumbed through each book, completely captivated by the notes Grandma had scribbled in the margins. She had written her thoughts about characters, plot, and themes. And, best of all, she had written me small letters on the inside of each cover, letters about life’s lessons.

Even in her death, Grandma was still giving me all the hope and magic and love she could.

I didn’t know if these were the last books I’d ever get from her, so I made sure to take my time reading them. I stretched them out all the way until my next birthday.

When Halloween day did arrive, I was terrified to go down stairs and find an empty kitchen table.

But when I reached the bottom of the staircase, my heart burst out of my chest. For there was another box with another message:

To my Baby Boo! Love Grandma

And inside that box there they were. All 14 of them.

14 books for my 14th birthday.

It went on like this, year after year, and I began to look forward to spooky season once more. The changing leaves were beautiful, the storms exciting.

When Halloween was near, it meant my birthday was near. And if my birthday was near, it meant I got a box of books from Grandma.

At least, that’s what I thought until my 17th birthday. On that day, after I had opened my box of books, Mom told me Grandma only made me one more box.

I remember going from floating to falling, from beaming to bursting.

Only one more box? Only one more year to look forward to?

I took a deep breath and dreaded the day of my 18th birthday.

NOW

It was hard not to finish Mrs. Dalloway in one sitting. Somehow though, I made it last a few days.

But I’ve decided I’m going to ration the rest of the books out, to make the magic last just a little bit longer for me.

Mom says there are no more boxes. She says that Grandma picked just enough books to help me become a “big girl.”

I guess Grandma thought I wouldn’t need her anymore after today.

But that’s simply not true.

I’ll always need her. I’ll always love her. And I’ll always look to her, to these pages, for her wisdom.

But today, at least for today, I am not going to say goodbye.

I can't say goodbye.

Because every now and then I hold onto the hope— all the hope and magic and love in the world— that next year for my birthday, I’ll walk down the stairs and there will be a cardboard box waiting for me on the kitchen table. And on top of that cardboard box there will be a message written in her handwriting. That message will read:

To my Baby Boo! Love Grandma

And inside that box there they will be. All 19 of them.

19 books for my 19th birthday.