Ready, Set, Don’t Go
While some grandmothers express their love for their grandchildren through cookies, cakes, and pies, my grandmother expressed her love for us through pennies, pendants, and marbles. My grandma loved to collect miscellaneous junk and give them to us. One time after eating dim sum, she picked up something off the ground of the parking lot. “Here’s a marble for you,” she said in Cantonese as she dropped the bright green M&M into my hand. Another time she found a rusted cross pendant and strung it on red yarn to make a necklace for me despite neither of us being Christian. Although I never collected pennies, she somehow got the idea that I did. I now have over 700 pennies from her and I count them on nights when I miss her.
Growing up in poverty in northern Vietnam, she couldn’t afford to waste anything. Everything was scarce, especially during the Vietnam War. Irreparable clothes became floor towels. Old chopsticks became plant stakes. Empty cans became coin holders. Everything had value to her, but the thing she valued most was her family. When her husband died, he left her with little money and seven children to raise. She sold soap, candy, popcorn, joss paper, grass jelly, anything that would earn money for her family. Through her diligence and resourcefulness, she saved enough money to immigrate her and her family to America.
And that’s where I was born. My dad is the youngest of the seven children. I remember spending my weekends at her house, where she lived for over 30 years. Her desk was cluttered with school pictures of her 20 grandchildren and photos of people she could no longer recognize. Her walls were decorated with years-old Chinese calendars. Her closet was filled with rusted mooncake boxes and tattered clothing. She struggled to part with things, a habit I must’ve picked up from her. Just as she had grown attached to her belongings, I had grown attached to her. And I didn’t want to let her go.
As I watched my grandma fast asleep on the hospital bed, I knew this was not the life she wanted. She’d want to be sitting at a mahjong table instead of lying on a hospital bed. She’d want to be outside breathing in fresh air instead of from an oxygen tube. I knew she wanted to walk and talk and eat again. Yet at the same time, I was not ready to let her go. The selfish part of me wanted her to stay. I wanted to be able to see her, hug her, hold her, kiss her. But above all, deep down, I wanted her to be happy. And in order for her to be happy, I needed to let her go.
So on my next visit, I sat down beside her and held her hand. Although swollen and bruised, it was still her hand. I slowly massaged it to try to ease the swelling. She was sleeping, as she often did at the time, when I whispered to her, “Grandma, we may not be ready, but please, if you are, don’t worry about us, and go.”
Before I left, I kissed her softly on the cheeks. Suddenly, I felt her gently squeeze my hand, as if she didn’t want to let go. But she eventually learned to. Because not long after her death, she visited me in my dream. She was lying awake on her bed. I playfully kissed her cheeks and she laughed the laugh I longed to hear again. Then she pulled my head close to hers, her hands warm and strong, and kissed me goodbye.
Shawn Tran is an American writer based in Taipei, Taiwan. His writing has been featured on The New York Times, The Chicago Tribune, The Wall Street Journal, Mud Season Review, and Slackjaw.
