Po yi

"Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory." – Dr. Seuss

“Po yi, your grandson is here to see you,” the nurse announced, her tone lacking tenderness.

I stepped into the room, and my heart sank at the sight of my grandmother. She was seated in her wheelchair, alone. I approached her slowly and asked softly, “Grandma, do you remember who I am?”

She tried her best to lift her head slightly, using the corner of her eyes to catch a glimpse of me. She couldn't really see anymore with her illness; she couldn’t truly see me but recognized my voice. She nodded and replied, 

“I do.” Her voice was a fragile whisper.

I grabbed a wooden chair to sit beside her. I reminded her of the cherished moments from my childhood when she would tell my brother and me the story of Aladdin at night, lulling us to sleep with her soothing voice. My brother and I would build Legos in her room. I told her about happy memories with grandpa as well. In the back of the door, he drew a line tracking our height every year. About our favourite Cantonese restaurant right across the street.  

I told her how happy and excited I was back then every time I saw her. I will always cherish those memories, and they will forever live in my heart. As I spoke, I noticed the faintest smile attempting to break through the sadness etched on her face, but it quickly faded.

Her posture changed; a shadow crossed her face, 

and she said with her voice trembling, “Your grandpa is not here anymore.” 

The weight of those words hit me like a tidal wave, and I nodded, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill over.

“I know,” I replied, my voice trembling despite my efforts to remain composed. 

I took her hand—fragile and warm and said, “He will always live inside my heart. His legacy is forever with us.”

In that moment, I felt a bond deeper than words could express. A single tear rolled down her left cheek, glistening like a precious gem against her weathered skin. Even though her vision was faint, she tried to reach for my hand, searching for my presence. I reached out my hand and squeezed her hand gently, feeling the strength of her love intertwining with my own sorrow.

I told her about her family—her sons, daughters, and grandchildren, all thriving and achieving great things. 

“We all adore you, Grandma. Everyone is so proud of you,” I said, hoping to fill her heart with warmth. 

The tear that had escaped her eye was a testament to the love that still thrived within her, even amid her struggles. I stayed with her until it was time for her to go to bed, each moment stretching into eternity. I promised to return, although I don't know if that is true:

If I would have the opportunity to see my grandma again. 

After a final embrace, I stood to leave, putting the chair back in place, and I stood across, glancing through the window, acknowledging that every visit could be the last.

As I stepped out onto the street, the world felt different. Even though it was the same street, some shops remained the same, some had moved, and some had been renovated. I felt different, not just by the appearance of it, but by the difference within myself, marked by the absence of the purity and unadulterated happiness I experienced in their house. Stores that once held fond memories had changed, and the old apartment stood as a silent witness to the passage of time. 

I walked away, my heart heavy with loss, yet I held on to the warmth of our connection. I wished time could stand still, that I could have one last conversation with my grandpa, to hear my grandmother’s bedtime stories one more time, and to remember them as they were—full of life and love.

In the quiet of the evening, I didn’t cry. I held onto those moments, cherishing the love that would forever resonate within me, carrying them into the future as a reminder of the bonds that time could never sever.