she was
it suddenly struck me that my grandmother was dead. i hadn't thought of it for a long while. i felt guilty, because maybe it meant that i didn't care enough, didn't think of her enough. There i was sitting in my garage, talking to my other grandma on the hp. i was trying to grovel some yummy recipes out of her, and she very gladly told me exactly what to do(not that i understood what she said). It was really fun speaking to her in broken hokkien and getting a reply in broken engrish. yar, so anyway. My grandfather seemed practically overjoyed that i was calling for recipes. He was like smiling so hard that i could hear a bigbig grin in his voice. you know what i mean? And so the conversation ended on a very good note, and happy was i.

Then it occured to me that i don't do this same thing with my other grandmother. and i remembered, with a pang of regret, that she had passed on. Despite the daily visits to the hospital, the funeral, the prayers and the like over summer, it just hasn't really sunk in yet. She's dead. dead. but life for us goes on, just like it did before. I didn't cry then, i haven't cried till now. i don't think i will, ever, about her death. but i miss her. To me, she was always the 'other' grandmother. She was not the one who raised me. i never lived with her. She was not the loving, maternal one. She never hugged or showed her affection. She was not the generous and giving one. she never gave presents. She was not the interesting one. she kept on talking about her past, things that happened months, years and even decades ago. the same things over and over and over again.

BUT. She was the fiercely independant one, she brought up 2 adopted children, unmarried, all by herself. She was the one that never complained. she just kept on going. She was the strong one. she never fell ill, and never complained when she was (up till the day she died). She had lost most of her property during the Japanese occupation, but she scrimped and saved to put my dad through university. She was frugal (in every sense of the word). Her nice clothes were just a newer brighter version of her everyday clothes. She never ate more than enough. didn't crave the good things in life. thought that everything was more expensive than it should be. she even asked for a not-too-elaborate funeral. She looked almost the same everyday for 21 years of my life. the same unfussy hair and clothes. everyday. the same spunky old lady who refused to give in to old age. Her sprit never left her, till the day she died. It was her body that gave up.

She was 93 when she died. a ripe old age. She was admirable in every way. i wish that it didn't take her illness for me to spend more time with her. I learnt quite a bit more about her in those few months. why she chose to adopt children, her family background, and so on. but more importantly, i learnt that she loved us so much despite not showing it, that she too craved affection, that she liked having her hand held. I learnt that like us, she has her own special stories to share about things that mean a lot to her. She was once 21 too, and must have felt as we do now. hopeful about the future...experiencing first love...making new friends...exploring new found freedom? yet somehow, to the younger generations, the memories of an old person just doesn't seem to be as real. but one day, we will be in their shoes, and what happened to us today, will then be seen as nothing more than insignificant recollections of our past.

I still remember looking at her body that night, and upon seeing it so devoid of life, i felt weird. Didn't cry but was a little shocked. Because it just didn't really seem like her to die. Yup. it was then that i realised what a incredibly strong person she had been, and how she never showed any signs of weariness for life. And how she just kept on living each day without thinking about the end.

I cry, not because of her death, but because i miss her, and the strength that she showed.
and because the world needs more people like her.