The Gift

Every day is ordinary until it isn’t. It was April 5th. My husband and I had woken up a short time earlier and were slowly trudging our way through our morning routine. From the kitchen, he shouted, “Did you feed the cats?” I called out, “Yes. Did you pay the cable bill?” Other such romantic sentiments were exchanged throughout the morning. I had just put the toothbrush globed with too much paste into my mouth when my husband exclaimed, “We have a problem.” Uh oh. Even though I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, I started to recount every little thing I had done, ever. “What kind of problem?” I garbled. White foamy spit hit the mirror. “There’s an extra $20,000 in our bank account. I went to pay the cable bill, and there’s just, there’s just so much money in the account,” he said, shocked. I spat out all the toothpaste, not even bothering to brush. “Uh, what? Where did it come from?” I yelled. A moment later he poked his head around the bathroom door, his eyes soft, mouth slightly downturned. “The note on the account transfer says it’s from aunty M.”

Aunty M. The happiest, bubbliest, sweetest person I knew. I was with her the day before. Holding her hand, and not letting go. We had moved her into hospice. She wasn’t old. Seventy-seven isn’t old, is it? But she had cancer. Aggressive cancer. I remember in the beginning it was all smiles, determination, treatment, and positivity. Now, it was quivering lips, acceptance, masked tears, and inevitability. Every day was a little bit worse. When I visited her, it felt wrong to smile, but I smiled anyway. I wanted to try and make her happy. I think I needed to make her happy. That was selfish. But I didn’t care. I wanted her to smile. I wanted my aunty M back.

We received the call later that day, that aunty M had passed. They said she died peacefully in her sleep. What does that even mean? How does anyone know?

A few days later a card arrived in the mail. It was from aunty. The sentiment inside read 'Less years to live, less Fs to give.' I laughed through my tears. We had a tradition of sending nasty cards to each other. We would both go out of our way to find the meanest, rudest, funniest ones. The note inside this card wasn’t written in her delicate scrawl, but in neat block letters. She must have had someone do it for her. Post it for her. Send the money for her. I caught myself thinking how unfair life is. Well what is fair anyway? The nicest person I had ever known got sick and died. Apparently that's 'fair'.

I read it slowly to myself, and then out loud for my husband. I choked out the words. “I love you dearly, my little Missy. I’ve sent you an early birthday gift. No, it’s not too generous. It’s the right amount of generous. Please enjoy it. Spoil yourself. Live. With love, your aunty M.”

Live.

Fast forward a week. I hadn’t spent a penny of the $20,000. My husband and I were sitting in her condo, just staring at all the curios she had collected. Everything had just tumbled forward so quickly. She was in hospice before we had even dealt with her home and belongings. So here we sat, preparing to go through her whole life. I clenched the couch cushions, squishing the pastel flower design. Behind me, a delicate vase sat overflowing with obviously fake flowers. To my right, the glass tea cart filled with objects I wasn’t allowed to touch as a child. And on the mantle, the statuette of a slender female figure, polished and expressionless. I loved coming to aunty M’s house. Pretty items were everywhere, sparkling, inviting, curious, and irresistible not to touch. But now everything felt flat and empty. On the wicker table were some books, papers, her computer, and a small black book. I picked up the black book and turned it over in my hands a few times. It was a simple book, rectangular with rounded edges. The surface was slightly rough, cracked and worn, like calloused hands from daily use. The frayed page marker that poked out at the bottom seemed listless. With a slight hesitation, I pulled the elastic band that held it closed. I had never opened this book before. It was aunty M’s special book, her little treasure. I sucked in a little air, and gingerly began to flip through the pages.

As I started to leaf through, I was struck by the depth that filled each line, and each page. All her family and friends were in this book. Names, phone numbers, address, and little notes and poems accompanied each one. There were often little photos taped to the pages, sometimes dried flowers, and still on others sketches. Every page showed the outline of her life, her connections, her journey.

She would take the book with her on her travels. Document the marvelous things she saw with short little notes or rough penned sketches. But now it hit me full force. This was her soul, this was aunty M. With the turning of each page, I could live another memory of her, with her. The trip to Hawai’i. The time we went to the flower gardens together in Victoria. Her cross-country road trip. She drove the whole way herself. She was so adventurous. She made living look easy.

I turned to the marked page and saw that this was my page. She had done a rough sketch of me, under which she had written ‘My Little Missy’. My throat started to burn a little and close up. I could feel the tears bubbling to the surface, and then stain my face. I traced my hand over the page. There was a dried daisy taped to it, probably from one of the many bouquets I would send her on special holidays. In the bottom corner she had written, ‘Dare to be all the things you dream of. Dreams are lives yet to be lived.’

I couldn't hold back anymore. The tears began to flow, stinging my eyes. I was coughing, sobbing, blubbering. I snapped the book closed, and clutched it to my chest. My husband, caught off guard, immediately pulled me in for a hug. Through the tears I stammered, "All I have now are memories." He pulled me in closer, and whispered, "Those memories you have keep her alive. The longer you live, the longer she lives. The more you do, the more she does with you. She's always with you if you keep her memories close."

Live.

My first purchase with aunty M’s gift: a little black book.