Walking on the Beach with Natalie: A Love Letter

A collaborative book project by Hope Katz Gibbs, founder, Inkandescent PR & Publishing Inc.

March 8, 2017: The Beach

I can feel your hand in mine as I think about what I want to say. There are so many thoughts in my heart that want to become words. So much I wish I’d had more time to tell you. Then I hear you whisper in my ear, “Shhh … let’s just walk.”

And so we do, up and down Venice Beach, CA, two miles from Michael’s place. It’s your birthday today, and I have come here to spend time on the beach, your happy place. I wanted to check on Mike before heading to visit cousin BJ and the girls in Arizona. I need to be sure that everyone is doing ok nine months after you died.

The funeral was on July 3, 2016. You were laid to rest next to your mother, beloved Pearl. I sat in the car at the cemetery for a long time, unable to make myself get out, unable to admit this was really happening. I closed my eyes, full of fear and sorrow and tears, when I heard you tell me what you’ve been telling me my whole life: “You can do this.”

So I wiped my eyes and said aloud, “I can do this.”

Minutes later, I was holding onto your gravestone to help keep me upright. I looked over at beautiful BJ, standing tall and brave. She got the call notifying us that you had died in your sleep over the weekend. The manager at your apartment house thought it was strange that you hadn’t popped in to say hi as you always do at lunchtime. After BJ phoned Michael, he called me. “Sit down, Hopie,” he said. And I just knew.

March 8, 2017 — Sunset on Venice Beach, CA. Photo by Hope Katz Gibbs

In less than 48 hours, the three of us gathered at the hotel across from your apartment building. Eating chicken quesadillas and drinking wine, bourbon, and whatever they’d pour to help us escape, we tried to understand what had happened. But we knew it didn’t matter. There were details to be tended to and nothing would change that your story had come to a close. Now, we had to find a way to go on — without you.

Breathlessly, I can’t imagine how we’ll do it. Selfishly, the little girl voice in my head is screaming, “Please don’t go.” Heartfully, I know you will always be with me. I love you forever, Aunt Nan!

March 8, 2024: Dear Reader

There are some people in your life who make you feel like the most special person in the world. When they look at you, you know that you are profoundly loved, eternally safe and that everything will always be okay — come what may.

Natalie was that person for me. My aunt … my champion. A woman who could spell any word you asked her (especially cool and helpful when you are in the 5^th grade). She always had the exact wisdom you needed for any situation. She’d make you realize, oh yes, that’s right — this big ass problem that seems unsurmountable really doesn’t matter. It’s just part of life, and we will live through it. Then she made you laugh about it, gave you a big Natalie hug, and suggested we paint our nails (she kept her polish in the refrigerator), have coffee, or walk Lafayette, her hunk of a golden retriever.

March 8, 2017 — Self-portrait in the sand, Venice Beach, CA. Photo by Hope Katz Gibbs

My fondest memory is of her dancing with me when I was four. She was twirling me around the living room in my grandparent’s house singing “Sadie, Sadie, Married Lady” as Barbra Streisand belted it out on the record player. Natalie had come to tell me she’d just gotten engaged to the man she’d be married to for her entire life. On this night, she was the happiest lady in the world. I had the privilege of being her flower girl a few months later. Looking now at those photos from January 5, 1969, I am catapulted back to that moment, that dance. This is how I will always remember her.

Natalie gave me the courage to believe in myself, avoid the drama others wanted to share, and laugh as often as possible. Oh, she had the best laugh—deep-throated, full-bodied, and contagious as hell. She loved to curse and make soup, and mostly, she cared deeply for the thousands of people she worked with as an apartment manager at complexes around Philadelphia and for years at my alma mater, the University of Pennsylvania. “You can do this,” she said, not just to me but to everyone she met.

An invitation for you: In honor of the gifts Natalie gave me, I have a present for you. I invite you to write a love letter to that one miraculous person who changed your life. Share their story, your story, and the lesson you learned. We’ll put it into a book and share it on our websites and social media, knowing your tale will inspire others to open their hearts and embrace their blessings. I think this celebration of love is the best gift you can offer to give back and pay it forward.

My lesson learned: Never be afraid of who you are. Those who truly love you see you. They support you and believe you can move mountains with your mind, body, spirit, soul, and magnificent heart. “I will always be here for you,” Natalie would tell me. “But it’s you who needs to do the work. Now go out there and love as much as you can, and never stop making those giant dreams come true.”

What’s your story? Click here to send me an email and we’ll get the party started.