I miss my grandparents. But instead of mourning, I’m celebrating them.
When I found out that June is Care for Your Grandparents Month, my initial thought was, “Wow, that’s a thing?”. Until it was very rudely followed up with the realisation that I no longer have any grandparents to care for. Thanks, intrusive thoughts. Don’t get me wrong – I miss my grandparents dearly. I just use jokes to cope with the loss. But as the months go by, the gaps they once filled in my life have now become gaping holes that I can’t ignore. And no amount of humour will make that go away. But cathartically writing (and crying) about it might help.
Food is our love language
Like many families, the core memories I have of my grandmother are centred around food. I never said this to her, but she wasn’t the best cook. Her rice was undercooked and almost every protein was dry as a bone. After-school dinners were a test of the grandchildren’s resolve as we attempted to finish the portions set in front of us. There were days when we’d even take turns throwing food into the toilet to avoid eating it.
However, as time goes by, there’s a sobering realisation that my favourite dishes of hers will no longer be at the dinner table. I don’t have a big appetite, but I always eagerly awaited the days when I could help myself to three platefuls of her nasi lemak. For anyone who knows me, I have to absolutely love the food to stuff myself to the brim.
Durian season will always remind me of her. As an avid durian lover, she used to put the beloved fruit on our table before we even asked. She was a shrewd negotiator and never walked away without a deal. I never took note of peak durian days because her fridge full of styrofoam boxes was all I’d need as a reminder. This is the first of many durian seasons I’ll spend without her.
The sweet mundanity of routines
Stories of my grandfather are few and far between. He was a man of routine and rarely deviated from it. His passport was empty, save for a single trip to Malaysia. When he wasn’t taking down lottery numbers in a yellowed notebook, he sat by the living room window in quiet contemplation while watching out for me as I walked from school back to their home in Bedok. At 5pm, I knew I would find him eating dinner in the kitchen after burning joss sticks for the altars.
Sundays were sacred family days. My grandmother’s voice cracked like a whip at dawn before I was out of bed, urging me up to squeeze as many hours of mahjong as we could into a day. Everyone knows that grandmothers are natural lucky girls, and I envied how she won games with such ease. But I’d happily take the short end of the stick and listen to her cheer and scold me if it means spending another mindless Sunday with her.
While my grandmother was a loud and proud woman, my grandfather was a quiet presence. He tiptoed around us to avoid being a nuisance, choosing to fade into the background and watch us live our lives from afar. How ironic that his departure ended up becoming the most disruptive thing of all, with the strange realisation that I miss my grandparents and the smell of incense. Occasionally, my brain still enjoys playing tricks on me as I see his shadowy figure out of the corner of my eye in his usual spot.
The glue of the family
More than just individuals, my grandparents were our home. Wherever they went, the family would follow. There was never a schedule or an appointment, because any time we went to their home, someone was there. Snacks and drinks were bought with sharing in mind. The huge round table in the kitchen was never empty, always filled with food of some kind to feed us.
Celebrations were abundant. Any time there was a birthday or holiday meal, we flocked to my grandparents’ home. The same coffee table I sat at to do my homework transformed into a place of discussion at night. The day’s events were recounted through overlapping conversations in English, Mandarin, and Hokkien simultaneously. If those walls could talk, they would speak of three generations’ worth of stories.
The family home that we once turned to is now without an anchor to draw us all back. Moths with no flame, we retreat to our newly established safe spaces found in spouses, new friends, and work. I no longer fight to be heard over six conversations happening simultaneously, but I struggle to get used to the silence.
A never-ending story that can’t be fully explored
I’m still discovering things about my grandparents even after they’ve passed. Like how my grandfather loved rose apples, drank coffee with sugar (I always thought he drank it black) and played an old flute on some mornings. I was told he was never any good at it, but I won’t get a chance to judge for myself.
I often think about the skills that didn’t get passed down to us. My sister and I spent some days at the void deck with our grandfather and his Chinese chess set. We boldly claimed that one day we’d beat him at his own game, but that day never came. And my grandmother, in all her stubbornness, refused to teach us how she wrapped bak changs (rice dumplings). Despite yearly attempts to wake up at 4am to join her in her endeavours, she would speed through the process before my cousins could even wipe the sleep from their eyes.
I like to think it was her way of spoiling us – by doing all of the laborious work so we wouldn’t get our hands dirty. But that’s also where the misunderstanding lay. While they perceived the activities as mundane, we saw them as opportunities to keep something about them alive.
Try not to cry challenge: failed
I’m not gonna lie, I struggled to write this. Although the concepts and ideas came to me fluidly, the words didn’t. It’s as if writing about them made their deaths even more of a reality and sealed the deal that I now live my life without the people who raised me for a large part of my adolescence. I can’t ignore the gnawing in my chest and misty eyes as I re-read this.
While I mourn their deaths (as you naturally would for people you’re close to), I’m not sad about their passing. Death is a natural consequence of life, and I comfort myself knowing I had no control over this inevitable situation. I’d like to believe their lives were fulfilling, even in their last moments. After putting in the work of raising four kids and watching their grandchildren grow up, they can finally rest.
And I will miss them for the rest of my life.