My grandmother is one of the best friends I have. She’s a stout but sturdy woman with short hair and a brisk walk. She does everything with meaning and a certain umpf. If you were to tell her to jump off a bridge (which would take more effort than hauling a herd of elephants up a narrow staircase), she would do so promptly and with purpose. I remember the days she would braid my hair. She would sit me down at the kitchen table and sit on a stool behind me. I could hear her labored breathing grace my neck and the tug and pull as her fingers worked nimbly to assure the perfect French braids - not a single strand of hair out of place. At night, I would go up the stairs to her room to bring her hot water. She took her medicine day and night, but liked to swallow her pills with hot tea. I always needed an extra tea cloth to hold the hot container, but her calloused hands always took it with ease. Those nights, I would stay a little longer. I would sit by her side on her bed and watch as she took her medicine. I saw her Adam's apple bob as she swallowed and her eyes scanning the outline of the other pills in her container. Afterwards, she would always bring her next sewing project to her lap.
My grandmother was no seamstress, however she was the person we all went to for holes in our socks, alterations, and missing buttons. I loved to lie down by her side and watch the needle pass through the thread. She had poor eyesight, so I would often have to thread the needle for her and tie it before she began. I watched how my grandma, a usually crass woman, maneuvered a tiny sliver of metal skillfully through fabric. It astounded me to watch a scrappy piece of linen turn into a hat, or a scarf, or a shirt. She saved pieces we would throw away and turned them into functional pieces of art. Eyeing my grandmother, I found a new wave of appreciation in her.
She only visits for half the year once every other year. Traveling from China to the United States is taxing on any human being, and especially on her eighty year old arthritis ridden bones. But, sturdy as she was, she got on the plane and navigated her way through a foreign world. She only understood basic phrases like “thank you” and “where is the bathroom”. Yet she continued to visit for the warm embrace of her second family in the United States.
I haven’t seen her since the start of the coronavirus, but I often think of her. When the panic hit and the virus was mostly contained in Wuhan, I worried for her. I remembered her last words to me before she left for China the previous summer. She told me in Chinese, “Study hard and I’ll be back when you graduate! I know you will make me proud.” I remember her beaming smile, and how her stern facial expression melted into soft happiness. I imagined her on the plane ride back, one small but solid old woman rumbling through the terminals, a look of determination set upon her aged skin. I told myself that she would come back next year; she promised. And she is a woman who would never break her promises.
I rarely see my grandmother anymore, and I can barely speak to her - I always communicated with her through my hand gestures and eyes. The language barrier was too deep for me to break through it. Yet I know my grandmother more than I know most of my friends, and I know she can see more about me than I can even recognize in myself. She is a woman of resilience and intelligence I could never understand myself. I know she will come back someday. And I know that day will be one of great joy.
September 2020