Ông Nội

Mar 18, 2006 00:34

I logged into my old account today. I've written a total of 191 journal entries, but only three surfaced to mind. There was a boy from the Old World with appreciation for calligraphy and eloquence. I wrote sparsely about him. The boy who reminisced aloud to me and Jade about that other Jade who was furious with her ex-boyfriend only to realize that there was no "other Jade". The stubborn boy who thought he could take on the world and globe trot, when his illness prevented him from trekking even within the neighbourhood. That day he read a letter from his Australian relative to me, but I only mentioned that in a brief paragraph. I brushed it off and rambled on about my own mail from Kansas.

I didn't mention that the boy was in deep admiration for the family harmony of his relatives in Australia. So much so that it bordered on yearning. I didn't mention that he had alzheimer's or that he was the original motivator in our family to cherish blood ties. That he was the only person who stepped into help me when I was literally on my own with my sister. Everyone backed away from us during that time in my life. This boy who was there for me, I felt, was mentally like a stranger. We were never very close and that fact made me all the more grateful for his support. He had an unbreakable sense of duty. On the surface, he had blood of steel, never indulging in affectionate gestures, but it flowed back to one of the most compassionate hearts I've ever known. I'm afraid that his best qualities haven't been passed down to his eldest granddaughter. When I no longer needed help, he withdrew quietly and carried on as normal. I never said thank you.

My measly attempts to repay my grandpa consisted of delivering avocado milkshakes, wine and weekly medicine packages to his doorstep. I'd explain to him during each visit which pills to take at what day and what time. I am sure he never paid attention to any of it. I have to admit that especially during my motherless period, I would take advantage of these visits to raid my grandmother's kitchen. My grandpa and I would both sit together at the table with our hearty appreciation for Viet cooking. Unfortunately, I have not inherited his metabolism either.

Just last week my grandma asked to borrow one of my tweezers. It was for my grandpa's facial stubble. To him, there was absolutely no excuse to allow yourself appear unpresentable. Life threatening stroke? Ptcha, no reason to stop meticulously grooming your hair. Obstinate dignity. Eudaimonia, eudaimonia, right? He was the 20th Century Aristotle preaching, "No ugly man could truly be happy." And today, while shaping my eyebrows the reality came to me again, and it was just tearful and brutal.

He passed away in the morning. I was supposed to accompany him to Vietnam this summer. He was so excited about the oncoming Spring. His wheelchair scooter was waiting in our shed. He was going wear his newsboy cap and drive it to the street markets. And I was going to follow beside him as he told me more stories of our family history. The voice in that book is gone now.

And every character I type is a tear I have not shed.
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