It’s been almost three years, yet every time I pass your room downstairs I still half expect you to be there.

Your bed remains, as do the picture frames of family shots and my mother’s maiden photograph. She said you’d always liked her. Even before Dad thought of proposing, you’d wanted to see them walk down the aisle and dreamed of attending your grandson’s wedding. But once they were husband and wife, you had a different dream: you wanted to witness the child. And at eighty-five years of age, you heard your great granddaughter’s first cry.

I think your dreams granted you strength, thai-thai, for when you dreamed to see me grow up, you saw it come true. I actually turned fifteen, you know, that day you were admitted to the hospital (and never came back).

Hospital visits weren’t unusual, because you’d been coming and going several times before that last one. It was never anything serious–in the end you always came back home.

I honestly don’t know if anyone had seen it coming.

I mean, you can tell me now that it was probably your time to go, for you’d been here almost a century. But isn’t that the point? All my life you were the oldest person I knew, though you were barely ever bedridden until the last couple of years. It never occurred to me that you would ever leave us, that you even could.

I still remember your cooking (even grandma still can’t beat yours) and the childhood flavors I had learned to love. I remember the red pockets you’d give us every Chinese New Year. I remember your hair, which had always been grey for me, and your eyes–so old and loving and full of answers to the questions I never asked. I remember greeting you every morning before leaving for school, and each afternoon that I came home.

I remember the first days after your funeral. I’d forgotten and called out at an empty room, and found myself in tears when I saw there was no one on your bed.

My dad never cries, but I saw his cheeks damp upon waking up one morning. Perhaps you came to visit in his dreams.

I know that you were close to him, and he probably loved you (and loves you still) more than anything.

Thai-thai, I don’t know what to say except I’m sorry.

Even on your last days when your memories fractured, you remembered me. You remembered my name and you called out for me, but I wasn’t there when you did. I heard it from Mom.

I’m sorry.

It was a Friday afternoon right after school, exactly one week after my fifteenth birthday.

I was half-conscious walking through the hospital crowd, towards you. It was the same path I’d taken every day that week, but something had changed. I could hear singing far before I reached your room, and I shuddered because I recognized the voices.

My parents, my uncles and aunts, my cousins.

And I cried because I discerned an edge in their melody. Sadness, denial. Grief.

Thai-thai, I miss calling out your name. And I will never forget how I couldn’t believe you dead, even when you breathed no more.

It was surreal, even now, when together we chorused “farewell, farewell, farewell”, for I saw all eyes were fixed on your static chest and closed eyes, unwilling even for a second to look away for fear of looking back only to see that you were not just sleeping after all. That the body which lay frozen was not the woman we loved. It was an empty shell.

I’m writing now mainly because I have to apologize, for all the times that I wasn’t there enough, and that I didn’t listen enough. I’m sorry I never asked you for your story – what it was like to be a single mother in times of war and chaos, what our nation was like back then, what you thought, what you loved, what you cherished.

But I also wanted to tell you that we’ll remember, that you might never be truly gone. I still feel your warmth in my grandpa’s laugh, and see your smiles in the hung photographs. We remember, as a family, because none of us could even be here if it wasn’t for you.

Thank you.

I hope you know I love you so, and I will make you proud.

Much much love,
Your great grand daughter

I wrote this for my late great grandma and first published the piece on my deviantArt.