I wish I could say I cherished our time together when I was young, but I remember often being a bit of a brat. I was quick-tempered, sometimes wishing she wasn't deaf or understood English so our communication would be better. Yet, I always wished she lived with us, and felt a lot of regret when she went back home.
After about 5 years of age, I didn't visit Hong Kong again until I was in university. Her deafness and lack of knowledge regarding technology meant that we couldn't phone or video call each other when apart. Whenever I thought of my grandma, I felt a sense of urgency that the time we would be able to spend together was shortening with each passing year; I would think of this occasionally, feel guilty, and then go back to my day-to-day life.
Once we were grown up, my mom went back nearly every year, and always came back with a suitcase full of my grandma's beaded creations. A hobby that she had picked up at a late age, she was skilled at making nearly anything out of beads - when I was younger, she had made me a peanut upon my request that still lives in my drawer. I was both proud and overwhelmed with these creations, as we started to slowly run out of space for them or friends to gift them to.
The year I finally went back to visit, I was shocked to see how much she had changed. She had always seemed old to me, being my grandma, but after battling a particularly nasty illness, she now was so thin and frail. She walked slowly, she couldn't eat solid foods, and her hearing had worsened to the point that she pretended to understand what we said, but her reply showed otherwise.
She still made her beaded creations, but now her eyes had worsened to the point that she could only use larger beads, unable to string together the small ones. She traveled to the market herself to purchase beads from vendors, and was currently making beaded flowers and vases. For the rest of our trip, she spent her time revising her creations until she had perfected every last detail, and when I came back from my trip, she surprised me with a suitcase full of them - she had spent every day that I was away working on them so I could take them home and gift them to others.
Of the time she spent with us in Canada, there are few memories that stick out. Her purple cardigan that she always brought around (air conditioning in Hong Kong make it easy to catch colds due to the huge disparity in indoor and outdoor temperature) from habit. How she let us pour our soup that we didn't want to drink back into the pot when my parents weren't looking. Sitting on my bed together and telling stories of when she was my age, when Hong Kong was invaded and the scars on her legs from that time. Whenever I sleep on the ground, I remember her telling me about how she preferred it (the thought of sleeping on the floor had never occurred the child-me) as it helped straighten your spine. Waking up and seeing her doing odd moves in our backyard, that I later learned was tai chi.
Of the times together that we had spent of recent years, there are many more mundane ones, but a few that make my heart ache. When I traveled back to Hong Kong a few years ago and left alone - for the first flight I would take solo, she insisted on accompanying me to the airport, and seeing me off at the departure gate. How upset she felt when the anniversary of my grandpa's death came around, and her pain of being alone and feeling useless all these years. That she didn't like to smile for photos because she was conscious of no longer having teeth. Bumping into her unexpectedly as we both arrived at the same station at the same time, despite coming from opposite directions. Her insistence of being independent, not wanting assistance with eating or walking. Her failing eyesight and loss of strength meant she no longer spent her days making her beaded creations; her favourite hobby that made her days pass by with joy now suddenly gone hurt me more than I understood.
My absolute favourite memory of my last trip back has to be on the day of her birthday; we planned to spend the afternoon at the Peak, a place she hadn't been for a few decades. Unfortunately, it was one mishap after another; after some wrong turns, we were unable to take the tram up to see the view with her, and instead went up by bus. It was a wet and foggy day, and once at the top of the she chose to stay in the building and not walk around outside with us due to fear of slipping and falling. The view was pretty terrible due to the fog, and I was a little sad that her birthday celebration was turning out to be a bit of a flop.
Fortunately, our luck turned around as we headed back down. We were able to take the tram together on the way down, and then headed to the Observation Wheel in Central. The staff saw her waiting in line and offered her a seat while we waited our turn. The ride was relaxing and went around for more rotations than we expected. Once we got out, she grabbed my arm and pointed to the nearby merry-go-round. Do you remember how I used to bring you to ride those when you were younger? I jokingly asked her if she wanted to ride it together again, and she said no, but my mom overheard and offered to get tickets. She continued to insist that she didn't want to ride it, but came along with us as we went up to the merry-go-round. As we paid for the tickets, she slowly made her way over to the line to board. I thought we would be sitting on one of the carriages, but to my surprise, she continued walking, and gestured to two of the moving horses. We have to ride these ones, these are the best ones. I watched with some trepidation as she gingerly climbed up on the horse, and she almost made it all the way up without any assistance. Once up, she buckled herself to the horse, and as the merry-go-round began to move, she looked the happiest I had seen her all day.
I have so many complicated feelings about my grandmother. I keep wishing we had more time to spend together, I keep reliving the few memories we do share, and feel regretful about the ones I have already forgotten. Even writing all these feelings out, I feel some hesitation about the unknown future, and scared of the possible finality these thoughts seem to bring.
On our last morning in Hong Kong, my mom and I went to visit her at her residence. As I looked around her shared room, it struck me how small her world was. How routine everything was, how empty her days could be now that she was devoid of the hobbies she once enjoyed. How I didn't often think about how she was living, how our lives were passing by, rarely intersecting. It was a bittersweet feeling, knowing this would be the last meal we would share for the foreseeable future. I struggled to enjoy the moment and pushed down the choking feeling.
We said our goodbyes at the top of the escalators; just as we turned to leave, she called us back and told us to be healthy, and tears stung the back of my eyes. The distance between her home and mine suddenly seemed so unbearably far.
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