A few days ago, I checked in with myself to see how well I was adhering to my resolutions. It is already April, 4 months into the year and it's spring. I love spring because of what happens: the cold of winter and the dead bareness of it suddenly seems to go away. The sun is out, the days are longer, the flowers emerge, the trees shake themselves slowly awake and start presenting the softest of soft leaves to the sun. Spring is also an interesting time of year, especially in an academic timeline. Classes are winding down and students are suddenly aware that there is life outside of the library, and campus is suddenly bustling with activity. Spirits lift and there is a renewed hope because of the liberty and heat that summer will bring.
My spring has been dampened by a few things, one of which is the passing of my grandma. Two years ago, as trivial as it sounds, my mom's dog died suddenly. Three years ago in May, my grandfather passed away. When I found out about the death of my grandfather, I was heartbroken. And it was even more heartbreaking to call my relatives over seas and to hear the grief in their voices. I feel as though in the states, death is a solemn time and you grieve silently. Other cultures express the passing and grief of loved ones in very different ways, through ceremony, vocalizing their grief, wailing, feasts, celebrating. It was such a shock to me to suddenly be bombarded by the cries of my aunts and uncles and grandma, it drove me to tears. When I heard about my dog's death, my mom called in hysterics and it had sounded like one of her children had died. The thing about pets that make their going so heart wrenching is their unquestioning love and devotion to their families. My dog was annoying and loud and quite a handful, but nobody would ever doubt that she held a special place in all of our hearts for all those years she was in our lives, dependent on our charity and love, the secret morsels of dinner we snuck to her, and all our hugs and kisses.
Today, after hearing about my grandmother's passing, I felt strangely conflicted. How do you mourn someone you barely knew? After 96 years (97 by the lunar calendar), death should be a celebration of life, shouldn't it? I started writing a post years ago when my grandpa passed away and it was a list of things I had written, as a note to myself that life should be celebrated. I remember starting the entry, and the tears wouldn't stop. I couldn't write anything meaningful as if the words just refused to come out. Articulating my thoughts and feelings were too hard, so the only thing I was capable of doing was making a list of things that were good in life. After the explosions at the Boston marathon the other day, these things really made me wonder and think about what it means to be alive, what it means to be good and kind, and how we can live every day as a celebration of life.
I am writing an open letter to my grandma. I wonder if she'll understand it now that she's not in a place that's barred by language.
Grandma,
I wish I could articulate the things that I feel in my head and my heart today. You were a mystery to me. I know so little about you besides the fact that you were born in 1917. I can't even imagine what you have been through, your life and everything that's happened in it. I have no idea what you looked like in your youth, what your hobbies were, and what you enjoyed eating or cooking. Things have changed so much since then. I don't even know when you first stepped on American soil and what you thought when you emerged in a country where you could not even begin to understand the language. What was it like? To uproot yourself and suddenly go from house to house, babysitting your grand children, your great grand children? What was it like to not even be able to communicate with them?
When we were little, I remember the days that you spent at our house. We were reckless and messy, toys all over the house. But you never said a negative word and patiently cleaned up after us. I remember when you would meticulously cut and peel fruits for us to eat. I was always so amazed at how sure your hands were with the sharpest knife in the house. I remember your shoes. They were always those cute SAS brand shoes. And for some reason, someone (I don't remember who) told me you loved the red ones. So you would go from beige shoes, to white, and back to beige, but you'd be happiest with the red ones. Things seemed so simple back then. When I saw your red shoes at the doorway, you might be home napping and I could come pull the blanket up to cover you. Or you'd have a plate of pears, peeled and ready to be eaten. Then there was a period of time where you disappeared, probably to be where your great grandchildren were. Somehow, newborns and youth always bring a certain life and happiness to the elderly. And I remember at one of our family events, they put one of your great-grand children into your arms and your face lite up. The adoration, the happiness-- they truly are bundles of joy. And then there was a period of time when the grandkids all went to college.
Over the years, when you went into the assisted living/nursing home facility, I saw you less and less. And sometimes, I felt like you didn't really know who I was. But that was OK. I would give you a hug and I'd tell you my name, and you would suddenly remember the stranger that was before you. And every time I saw you, you'd always tell me that I've grown up so much, immediately followed by a question asking when I would get married and have kids so she could hold my children. That was when I would laugh awkwardly and distract you with the cookies and snacks I'd pick up on the way. Someone told me you loved the Asian crackers with the little bits of sea weed baked into them. I love them too. They were crunchy without being offensively crunchy, they were sweet.... not offensively sweet, but delicately sweet like the way life should always be. Sometimes I'd bring you the shelled chestnuts and we'd tear through the bag. The funniest time was when you insisted on feeding me the chestnuts even though I had a handful of my own. So we laughed and fed each other peeled chestnuts.
I'm not sure when you went from being able to walk to using a cane to being wheelchair bound, but I guess it's the same way that I'm not sure when you went from having greying hair to a soft fluff of white on your head. I KNOW you didn't have curly hair, so someone out there carefully permed it every so often and it was cute that you'd show up to family functions rocking your red SAS shoes and a neon pink dress suit or outfit, with your makeup carefully done by maybe one of the aunts. I loved the pink or bright red lipstick that you wore. Sometimes I wondered if you applied it yourself or if you chose the color and someone else applied it for you. Always showing up in fashion. Always smiling. Always present. I remember someone telling me that you had said your time was limited and that you wanted to spend time in everyone's household this year. But I guess time was not gracious enough to allow you that.
You were always there in our thoughts, and I think that you will continue to be there. We exchanged a handful of words. Language barriers are awful, but somewhere deep down, we understood each other and we communicated well enough. It's strange to think that I have only known you for a fraction of your life, considering how long I FEEL like I have been around. I wish I had known more about you and your life, but sometimes I don't need to know. I like it better thinking that I can imagine you in my mind as a bright and smiling youth, growing up to be a bright and smiling woman, growing up to see your children become adults, growing up to be a bright and smiling grandmother, holding your grandchildren--so full of potential, eventually growing up to be a bright and smiling great grandmother, leaving a legacy of change and adaptation, strength and happiness. I don't know that I would have been as close to my cousins or seen aunts and uncles as often as we did if you hadn't been around to be the common denominator and the glue bringing us all together. And again, in your passing, you bring so many people together again. I hope that maybe the gripes and grudges of the past might finally be let go so that we can honor you and your life in the way we remembered it to be.
I am carefully crafting a beautiful life for you in my head. The trials and tribulations are there, but what comes of it is a story of a family-- one that is continuing and will continue.
Thank you, Grandma. You have touched the lives of so many people. May you rest in peace.
