And so we smile

Saturday, May 12, 2007

I don't dare to wear the clothes that I wore when my grandpa left, because I'm afraid someone else may just go.

When I was younger, I used to wonder how life would be like without my grandparent/s.

And now to wonder, it's been one week since he was gone.

It's a weird feeling, as though I've lost something that's been there all through my life. Part of my conscience tells me he's not there anymore, and never will be. Yet part of my mind keeps wandering around in this surreal state of things, hearing the chantings and bells revolve around my ears, praying, walking behind him as he made his last trip around the neighbourhood before heading towards Mandai, watching the coffin advance into the furnace.

I remember the time I was beaten up by my mum at my grandparents house. Only my grandpa sat there quietly watching me cry, asking me to go eat with the rest. I don't know how to phrase this in the best way possible, but that's how my grandpa showed his care, subtly through his actions. His classic way was to pass us presents with a "na", and look away/ say nothing more. I miss his booming "Happy new year"s during the days he was fitter.

Tuesday, my dad was telling us about my grandfather's past. Imagine having to drop out of primary 3, because your distant relative doesn't want to sponsor you anymore. And this in spite (or perhaps because) of you topping the class every year (henceforth outshining your relatives' child). Beaten up at 10 years old? Working in a factory as an apprentice at 12? My grandpa used to ask whether we tak cek ho bo (studies are good). Ah gong, tak cek bui ho, but from today onwards, I'll try harder, try harder to fulfill your uncompleted dreams.

(Please pardon my terrible Hokkien)

My grandpa was one strong man. With 10% of his heart beating, he was still walking around (miraculously according to the doctor). Death must be a form of release for him. No more hardened intestines, no more tuberculosis, no more vomiting after eating, no more panadol to ease pain every night, no more operations to change his aorta. Ah.

On the day of cremation, my aunt told us he secretly kept the birthday card we made for him under his pillow, and looked through it every night before he went to bed. That was the last card I could ever make for my grandpa. Last thing I could do to make him happy. We visited him just the night before he left. Some intuitive feeling told me to turn around and look at my grandpa one more time before I left, but I never did. But I'm glad I left him with a smile, and he left us with one strong handwave of goodbye -- the last good-bye.

Ah gong, I'm proud, really, to be your granddaughter...

Or perhaps, to have been your granddaughter.

:)