Some writers have rituals they do to get their creative juices flowing. Some light a candle or brew special tea. I don’t have a ritual unless consuming copious amounts of coffee and water qualifies. But I’ve surrounded my office with mementos from people, trips and experiences, favorite books, inspirational quotes, and lots of post-its (bless those sticky pads).
But my favorite thing is a picture of 9-year-old me and my Nana.
She died when I was 13, and I still remember her voice and the way she smelled. (Ben Gay and talcum powder do make a memorable combo.) I spent a lot of time with her as a kid. She loved to shop and taught me how to pick through a clearance rack like a boss. She was short in size, but mighty in spirit. She was tough, unafraid of anyone or anything. But she was the softest person to lean into. She gave the best hugs.
I thought of all of this today more than usual because it’s her birthday. And since my memory stinks, I combed through the New Jersey archives to find out how old she would have been. And while I accomplished that, it was the date she died that gave me pause: September 24, 1989.
Friends, I abstractly chose September 24, 2024, to launch my very first book—35 years to the day she died. I picked that date because I needed to give myself a deadline and finally publish the book. It was random.
Or perhaps it wasn’t.
I’m a big believer that things happen when and how they should.
So as I contemplate this picture of my Nana tucking me close, her arms wrapped around me with love, I can’t help but smile. Because this morning, I was reminded that she’s still doing it. And she always will.
Happy 113th Birthday, Nana. Thanks for always taking care of me. I love you and I miss you. Until we meet again.
jensinclairwrites.com 