Grief

Five days ago, my grandmother left us.

My perfectly gentle, beautiful 嬷嬷 with her soft smiles and kind voice is gone. People say a lot of great things about the deceased; most true if not exaggerated.

I do not exaggerate about my 嬷嬷.

I did not deserve an iota of her, but she nonetheless spoilt me rotten with warmth and affection. Even when dementia took her from me, there were instances where her eyes found me and she smiled; perhaps even called my name. The bond we shared is not something I can easily describe with just words.

I was brought up by her; taught Mandarin as she repeated sentence structures to me, the lilt of her voice clear as her hands quickly demonstrated how to peel fibrous spines off pole beans or how to properly clean mung beans, all while we sat in front of the television as she watched her favourite cooking shows at four in the afternoon.

I was brought up by her; sitting on a stool in front of her as she got me ready for classes, humming softly as she gathered my hair into plaits and tails. She would smile fondly when I came home with my hair in a mess, noisily slurping up the lunch she prepared for my post-school hunger pangs.

I was brought up by her, her food always a great source of comfort; piled onto plates and bowls as her heaps of dishes opened up the dining table to conversation and laughter.

I was brought up by her, following closely behind her in the wet market as she clasped bundles of vegetables and plastic bags of fresh meats, her smile never wavering as she treated me to sweet soy bean milk and fried carrot cake for breakfast.

嬷嬷 had in her a patience beyond comprehension - her heart was always full of love; particularly for children. Family was everything to her, so she dedicated her entire being to ensuring they were loved and fed at all times. I do not recall a single moment where I visited her and she did not have food readily available as we sat and talked. I do not recall a single moment where I cried to 嬷嬷 about school or work or life and she did not have a kind word to say, as she wiped my tears or brushed my hair away from my face.

嬷嬷 had a crooked finger - torn from injury and incapable of movement. Whenever we held hands, I would subconsciously stroke this paralysed finger as ma-ma ambled along, before she nagged at grandpa to slow down. He would always pause and smile, before his heavy hand would find hers.

嬷嬷 is holding hands again with my gentle giant of a grandfather now. Whether I believe in an afterlife or not, I know they are together once again.

Grandpaw always mumbled to me about how long it took for her to get ready, waiting on her as she fussed about her hair and clothes or her lipstick. It is not lost on me that even in death, Grandpaw would be happy to wait for his wife.

They are reunited now, resting easy. 

I can see them in my minds' eye; a secret exchange of silent affection and understanding - wrinkled smiles, soft words and held hands.

I love you, 嬷嬷 - it was my blessing, to have been born your granddaughter in this lifetime. 

It would be my blessing to reap the same in my next life.