Hi, this is a bit of a continuation of my other post, Forget About It.
I don’t know my Grandpa. That’s what I realized as tears blurred my eyes. He was sitting right across me, but I couldn’t see him. His mouth was moving, but I couldn't hear him. For each tear that fell, it echoed the growing distance.
One for the lies.
Two for the shock.
Three for the anger.
Four for the pity.
Infinite for the first death.
I was approaching a week of living with him. Just the two of us. It was strange. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had spent a full day with him. Maybe when I was a kid and he would walk me to school, but I don’t really think that counted. Back then, he was more of a babysitter. And now fast forward, I’ve become his babysitter.
The clock ticked toward 4:30 in the afternoon, his dinner time. I had just plated seared chicken with sautéed broccoli, sprouted cauliflower, and celery, a flavor combination I had learned he liked. I watched as he hobbled over to the table, each step slow and careful, and took a bite. "Do you like it?" I asked with hope and caution. I had overcooked the food to make sure he would not choke. I noticed the few nubs of teeth he had left as he said in cantonese, "It’s delicious, much better than your grandma's cooking.” A grin spread across my face. I waited for him to say more. I craved more. I wanted him to say more. My satisfaction wasn’t enough. I wanted to hear a first word of thanks and appreciation. The clock ticked on, and my smile slowly fell into a frown.
As we ate in silence, I felt less like a granddaughter and more like a maid, tasked with cooking and cleaning. I came to the realization that in the twenty or so years I had been away, I had built an idea of who he was, or who I wanted him to be. I had been waiting for someone who did not exist. Blood ties but blood ties us apart.