By: Jena Lui
Ask me what I am thankful for and Grandmother,
it goes back to you. Always. But I always
think – could we not have gone back to the simpler times when I
asked you on our walk back to (y)our home whether I should
call you “Grandma” or “Grandmother” because English was
my second language? You always asked me. Me, a young
girl who only realized a year ago what the word “like” means.
I chose “Grandmother,” only
knowing my reason years later: greater respect.
Now, I would do anything to keep it all:
the mother tongue, the sound of our steps on concrete, and
the warmth of your hand holding mine. And always
much more. Could we not go back to the moment where I
told you about another one of my childhood limitations starting
with the words, “No, you must not (do this or that)” and
you asked, “But what do you want?”
During that moment, I felt the power beyond what my
present self could ever regenerate.
Feeling like a superhero but in the form of a first grader
in a short sleeve shirt and a skort.
It has been about twelve years since we lowered
you six feet below ground level. And I wonder if you
could ever forgive us for abandoning you and your values
the moment we stepped off the grass and drove away,
tears blinding our sights. For the next few years, seeking
your advice only to now keep my back towards your
photo on the altar. I have not been able to sense your presence
since the final days in the hospital where only the blurry faces
of my relatives told me the story of your condition.
All I have left is your photograph as a remainder
of who you are in my memories. Let me purge my past persistently
until I get the answers to what I want because the time machine
broke years ago. Where did I go wrong
because it feels like nothing is ever “right.”
I am not “right.”