My grandmother used to live in a tiny apartment in a red-brick building in the heart of Shanghai. The light flickered ever so often as the elevator made a groaning noise on its way up; after the elevator lurched to a stop, I’d make a right towards the end of the hall. The front door would always be securely locked, but it would always be open every Saturday, when my mother and I would visit.
She’d greet us at the door, a soft smile stretching from ear to ear as she ushered us inside. The television would always be on; sometimes, an array of leftovers from our dinner last week would be left on the table, next to a stack of newspapers with circled showtimes of programs she planned to watch. We’d go out to lunch at my grandmother’s favorite restaurant that was only a short drive away, where the waitresses knew and loved her. She’d always ask for a big bowl of water, in which she dunked every piece of meat or vegetable in hopes of washing away the oil and flavor that coated each dish.
My weekends would always be spent with my grandmother, and even though I’d complain that I wouldn’t have access to the internet at her house and that there wasn’t much else to do there, she’d always stay by my side during those two days, since she had a soft spot for me. Secretly, so did I, but Asian culture taught me well to never word your affection clearly and straightforwardly. Of course, I was never afraid to show her that I loved her dearly, but to speak of it through words and convey it directly? How embarrassing!
The weekends I spent with her turned into a daily experience when she moved into our house in the suburbs when I was in fourth grade, abandoning that red-brick building and tiny apartment. Back then, I didn’t quite understand why exactly she finally decided to join us. Nonetheless, I was excited, but also a little worried, since my understanding of the reasoning behind her move stopped at “she’s a little sick.” I talked to my grandmother every day about exciting things at school and she’d listen with a smile, and I looked forward to when I’d be able to tell her about middle school or even high school. Still, I was never able to directly convey my thankfulness in words.
And now I never will.
Back then, I didn’t know what cancer was, and I didn’t understand why one winter day, I woke up to the sound of crying relatives and quiet whispers. When I finally realized that I’d never be able to hear the sound of her voice calling out my nickname ever again, I wished that I’d be able to go back in time to put what really mattered into words. But of course, time only moves forward, so I look to the sky and smile at the memories:
Thank you, wai-po.