All I Can Remember Now

All I can remember now, is the small wooden table in the living room, which was always covered with dishes. You could hardly tell the contents or their colours. And grandma would be sitting by the door in that beaten up armchair, granddad on the other one right next to it; another small table was set in between those two chairs forming an awkward angle and was, similarly, covered with old magazines, in many of which my articles were published. My old bed from my childhood home was in their living room; it’s there just because. They were never good at saying goodbye to things, and had lost the desire for changes. Ever since the Cultural Revolution, mom said. Grandma was a beauty, mom said; she was fair, and elegant and all that. Granddad wooed her for a long time, mom said. She was supposed to be a mistress of a large family, one of those old names in Shanghai, mom said. But you gotta forget about those things, you see, mom said. And the kitchen, where I haven’t spent much time in, was never filled with the scent of delicious food, but rather, a blurry memory of cold afternoon sunlight and empty space, yet cluttered, you can hardly turn your head in it.

The last time I saw her, she barely remembered my face. I was feeding her lunch: a medium sized bowl of rice, vegetable and meet. She swallowed in silence like a child. A spoonful of clear broth, and then another, good job, that’s very good Ah Niang. Now, just eat a little more, you need this Ah Niang. There was never enough time. I left my city at the age of 18, but I had been far from them since high school. There are always so much of the worthless nothings and ridiculous chores that I don’t ever remember the purpose of. I was playing the piano; it always put a smile on her face. But the piano had been silent all those years. I had been away.

All I can remember, is that one time I decided pull the ultimate prank, to leave kindergarten and go home all by myself, crossing one of the busiest street in Shanghai, and go home. At that age, I never seemed to understand what it meant to be afraid. Alleyways, streets with cars and bicycles, all buzzing and honking and tires squeaking and my voice calling out to her when I saw her across the street drowned in the sounds of the city.
Every time I saw her she looked smaller, almost fading into the background. She’s slower, and weaker, and greyer, and all she does is smiling now.

10:12pm, May 15. Ah Niang’s gone to heaven, Mom said. Call and comfort your dad, mom said. Don’t call, we’ll talk when you get back, do your work now, dad said. The stupid Internet phone wouldn’t connect. I keep dialing, nothing, still nothing.
I don’t believe in heaven, or afterlife. When someone’s gone, they’re just gone. There isn’t a consolation price, and the regrets are forever.

I felt sick in my stomach when I realize how little time there had been, and how much I was in denial to even think about the possibility that one day, one day very soon, those who care about me, those I care about, are going to be gone forever.
All I can remember now, is that one lonely night when I was 9 or 10, awaken by my parents in the middle of the night. Wai Gong (my grandpa on my mother’s side), he is gone, mom said.

There had been more funerals than wedding I’ve been to. People cry, people tell the dead of their love. But the dead wouldn’t hear it. And we avoid, we take for granted, we even say hurtful things to those who love us and are living.