I wanted to learn how to transform things, to turn nothingness of raw earth into something beautiful. The sun shone against your crinkled skin, and you huffed in exertion every time you moved, but you yanked weeds and overturned soil with an unparalleled vigor. I remember coming home from school to find you nestled deeply in a blanket of wet soil, always wearing a collared shirt with swirling patterns of roses and peonies, the kind that many Chinese grandmothers have. When you lived with us, you were often alone, and you would spend those empty hours transforming our garden. I wanted to be independent and strong like you were. I wanted to be proud and brave like you were. It amazed me how you crossed boundaries like this, and there were so many things I wanted to learn from you. “Purple and yellow, lucky colors,” you often reminded me. ![]() “They’re beautiful,” I would reassure you. Two beautiful roses that you gardened with such care and asked me often how pretty they were. I was only thirteen at the time, but something about that fascinated me - how you were able to walk into a space so out of reach, unreligious, non-native, and speaking no words of English, to procure two beautiful things. I didn’t want to ask how you were able to communicate with him, but you seemed to know what was on my mind. They were replanting and would have thrown them away. When I asked where you’d gotten them, you told me that the gardener at the church had given them to you. I remember one afternoon, you came home clutching two pots of roses, purple and yellow. You used to frequent a Mormon church right by our house where there were rows of white fountains and thick gardens. Walking quickly around our small neighborhood in West LA, using your knuckles to gently stretch and ease your muscles, you would make long loops around our home. I remember there was one day when you were on one of your routines doing morning exercises. I lost more than just the language - I lost the sweet taste of Mandarin on my tongue, the silly Chinese songs you used to sing to me, and the rich accents and tones that make Chinese so beautiful.īut I didn’t lose you, and I didn’t lose the many lessons you taught me unknowingly. I used to tell my friends this, proudly too, but I lost the language, and it became an injustice to claim that title. My mother told me once that Chinese was my first language. I simply responded with “对,” and I convinced myself that it was because my Chinese was not good. You asked me many questions, but I never did the same for you. You often laughed at my Chinese, and teased me for only responding with “对.” “Yes.” “Correct.” It was a dismissive word. I lived for many years without ever thinking about how you were doing or what you were feeling - the barrier between us seemed too immense, a wall built from bricks of broken Mandarin, cement layers of faulty internet connection, and your strong Wúxī accent that not even the younger Chinese generation can understand anymore. Perhaps I would have treated you better, or at the very least, I would have remembered you. You never had a birth certificate, papers lost in the aftermath of revolution, and just the mere thought of age renders you silent and forlorn. You’re almost ninety now, although none of us are quite sure exactly how old you are. And perhaps now that’s why it is so difficult for me to accept your weakness. ![]() You gripped me firmly, and as a child, it reminded me of just how strong you were, despite your age. That’s how you’d often lead me, whether we were gardening together or taking a walk while you did morning exercises, you would always hurry me along, one hand wrapped tightly around my wrist. And though your hands are much rougher, crinkled like parchment paper, the gesture always sends my mind tumbling through our memories together, most of which we made when I was twelve years old, and when you lived with my family in America. It’s been so long since you were last in America, but every time someone grabs my wrist, I’m reminded of you. I thought that of our memories too: thick and comforting, but they were clumped as well, honey riddled with dry chunks of misunderstanding and silence. They were rich and floral and tasted so much of home. You left only a few jars before you went back to Nanjing seven years ago, but I still remember their taste. Those memories I have of you are sweet, sweet like the osmanthus honey you used to make me, petals hand picked from your cobblestone patio back in China.
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