Nancy Ann's Diary

“Those who don’t believe in magic,” I quoted to my grandmother, “will never find it.” She smiles and nods at Roald Dahl’s borrowed words she’s used to inspire me with since I was a little girl. I’m only 8 years old now, but I feel like a giant laying next to her shriveled body, in the sterile hospital bed. There’s a lump in my throat that feels like I swallowed an owl pellet: dry and boney. I want my last words to her to be powerful and meaningful, but my mind is blank under the pressure. So I squeeze her; her breath smells like chemicals. Gently, I slip away onto my feet. They weigh a fifty pounds each, but I drag them to the door. I look at her and just say what I feel. “I’m going to miss you Nana.” Voiceless, she mouths, “I’m going to miss you too.”

My knuckles are bulgy and white against the small black book in my grasp. Nana left it for me in her will. And twenty thousand dollars, but I only get a hundred of it for now; it’s in my pocket. My dad says I have to wait till I’m older to get the rest. I’m waiting to open the book too, till I’m alone. I imagine it’s her childhood diary. Nana’s eulogy sounds fuzzy while my mind races through what stories of hers are inside. A cute boy from school? A secret club? An encounter with a ghost?!

Finally I’m alone; the funeral seemed to last forever. Butterflies scramble in my stomach as I peel the cover away from the book. The page is blank. So is the next. They all are. I’m confused and disappointed. Why did she leave me this? What am I missing? The only other thing she left for me is…the money! I fish the hundred dollar bill from my pocket. My eyes strain for clues over every letter and marking. I’ve never seen a hundred dollar bill up close, but it looks normal to me. I turn it over and read the first words I see: “IN MAGIC WE TRUST?” That’s definitely NOT normal. “Magic.” I think. “Those who don’t believe…will never find it!” I rip the hundred dollar bill in half. Then into as many pieces as I can, until it’s a pile of small, green, paper squares. I open the book to the first blank page. I steady my hand and go over the spelling in my head before I write: “Nancy Ann’s Diary.” I turn the page and wedge a green paper square into the spine. I do that to every page, until I have none left, and delicately close the book. I realize how tired I am. I lay on my bed, still in my funeral dress. That night I dreamt I was a bird. Soft and grey. I flew to my Nana’s house and settled in a pine tree. I watched a little girl inside, sitting. She stopped writing in her book to look at me.

It’s morning. I’ve been laying awake for 28 minutes looking at the small black book on my desk. I push myself onto my feet. They weigh fifty pounds each again, but I still force them to my desk. I sit down in front of the book. I don’t remember there being a crease in the cover. I open it to the first page: “Nancy Ann’s Diary.” My heart is pounding so hard, I can feel my blood ripple in my veins. I turn the page again. The pieces of money are gone. But the pages aren’t blank anymore:

October 18, 1948

Dear Diary,

There is the sweetest bird, soft and grey, sitting in the pine tree outside my window. She’s looking right at me. I’m going to go outside and say hello.

Nancy Ann