The Rule of 8s

a story by and about my dad

The Rule of 8s

Hi y’all! Hope you’re having a good week. I know that on my About page I list myself as a humor writer, but I keep writing about grief and death and whatnot. Sheesh! But sometimes that’s how life goes. Yes, yes I do see the irony I just made right there. Anyway, these are things that have been on my mind, so here you go. Hope you enjoy my dad’s story…LET’S GO

I am able to ignore my own mortality for long stretches of time, until maybe one night every few weeks, when I’m awakened at 3:00 a.m. and it all rushes in and slaps me in the face, right there in my own bed. OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO DIE. Actually, dying doesn’t scare me. But sometimes aging does. I lie there and start to panic about not being able to drive anymore, or losing my marbles, or … you get the idea.

The other 23 hours and 50 minutes of the day, I do believe that I have some control over how things go when I decide I’m done with this mortal coil and finally take the plunge into that big swimming hole we call the Afterlife. Or the Scary Place, or the Mall of America, or whatever you choose to name it.

This works for me. If, as the hustle culture tells us (although everything else the hustle culture tells us is BS, but oh well) we “make it happen,” then why not believe at the end, we can make that happen too?

While it’s easy to stuff my feelings about my own upcoming adventures in kicking the bucket deep into my subconscious (thereby setting in motion the above-referenced occasional slap), recently I’ve been confronted with the mortality of others in my life. I’m not very good at showing or telling people I care for them, but I do. I’m not very good at understanding my own emotions sometimes, but when I let myself, I have a lot of feels about stuff (I am the author here, so I can be as vague as I want to, you’re welcome).

For privacy reasons I won’t get specific as to what’s going on, but other people’s distress stresses me out. I’m not sure my nervous system knows the difference between “it’s happening to someone else” and “it’s happening to me.”

the last photo of me and my dad that i can look at and smile. may 2022

Last July, my dad turned 88. A week before his birthday, I told him that my aunt mentioned that in some cultures, 88 is a very auspicious number, and he really liked that.

He’d always dabbled in writing—essays, recounting his childhood at the beach, short stories (even he put out a small book of 100-word stories (I myself put out two of them)). So several days after I mentioned the Auspicious 88, he told me he’d come up with a story about 8s.

It was a visual-heavy story, and he explained it looked like Spirited Away. Animated, silent, some dark scenes, memorable characters. He explained the whole thing to me on multiple occasions, and each time it got more intricate. A little too intricate. Eventually my step-sister tried to record him telling the story but by then he’d started to ramble and it wasn’t as good anymore. Plus I did not enjoy watching those videos. That wasn’t the Popster I wanted to remember.

I like the first, simplest version of his story, “Grandma’s House.” Here it is, in a nutshell.

An old man is waiting at a streetcar station, and his family has gathered to see him off. The streetcar comes and everyone hugs him to say goodbye, and gives him snacks for his trip. The ride takes him all day, with different people getting on and off the streetcar. Finally it gets to the last stop on the line: “Grandma’s House.” Everyone gets off, the back of the streetcar becomes the front, and it rattles off down the tracks again.

The old man walks up a hill to a beautiful house and knocks on the door. A woman answers, and the man shows her his papers. She checks the papers against a list she has with her, and nods, letting him in. She takes him to a room on the second floor. Room number 8.

Only the ‘8’ on the door has come loose and is hanging sideways so it looks like an infinity symbol. She shakes her head and repositions the piece of metal so it’s an 8 again. She lets the man in.

It’s a large, beautiful room. There’s a lovely view, fancy furniture, and the biggest, most comfortable bed he’s ever seen. It’s just perfect. He sets down his bag and smiles.

The woman leaves and pins his papers onto the outside of the door. As she walks away, the 8 falls sideways again, becoming an infinity symbol.

The next morning, she goes back to the room and opens the door—the old man is gone, and there is no sign of him or his bag. The bed is made. So she takes the papers from the door, and fixes the 8 again. She slowly makes her way downstairs, puts the man’s papers in a binder, and files it away.

My dad passed away on September 8^th.

I don’t really believe in fate or destiny, as far as some grand design goes, but as I said earlier, who is to say that on some level, we don’t create our own grand design for our own life? The easy-to-malign premise of Law of Attraction states we create our own reality. Who are we to say otherwise?

So the next time I’m awakened by that cheek-reddening slap in the middle of the night, I’ll do my best to reiterate my plan for exiting this planet. Which is simple: happy-healthy-happy-healthy-happy-healthy-happy-healthy-happy-dead.

Sending lots of love and light to those who need it—the ones who might be headed toward “Grandma’s House” and those who look after the place, keeping the porch light on for weary travelers.

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Thanks for reading.

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