My grandfather was a man of little words but I grew up knowing he loved me. He was a resourceful and clever person who worked tirelessly for his family. His parents passed when he was a child so he was raised by his brothers who were the epitome of a stereotypical man in the 1940s — they didn’t express much, had anger issues, thought men were superior and were often borderline abusive. Growing up under the Japanese occupation also meant that he only had a few years of school and frightening encounters with the cruel colonials before he was thrusted into adulthood. And so, my grandfather grew up without a parental figure or even the privilege to acknowledge the existence of love.
Yet, astonishingly, my father talks so fondly of my grandfather — telling me about how his father cycled to work at the peak of dawn every morning and returned when it was dark, about how his dad crafted a ping pong racquet from a piece of wood for school because they couldn’t afford to buy a real one, about how his father sang him a Filipino lullaby that he had heard on the radio, about how much his father loved him. And when I was old enough to have a favourite food, it was not a hard decision — my grandfather’s famous ‘black’ fried rice. Rather than the plentiful amount of dark soy sauce in his dishes, I think all of his grandchildren would agree that his food tastes of love. I wish I had known that I was eating his fried rice for the last time.
I spent a lot of time at my grandparent’s house as a child, but as my father’s career started to prosper, we moved further away. My parents became very busy and consequently, I started to become a little more distant from my grandparents. Still, my grandfather never hesitated to tell me I looked beautiful every time he saw me. My mother, who was mostly responsible for my grandparents’ wellbeing after resigning from her job, told me that they were always full from seeing my smiles whenever I made time to visit them. My Mandarin isn’t the best so I always struggled to communicate but my grandfather always threw in all the English words he knew to make me laugh and feel comfortable. I’ve probably never had a conversation longer than 10 minutes with my grandfather, but I know for a fact that he loves me and I wished I had gotten to tell him that I loved him one last time.
My grandfather whom I forgot how much I loved.
My grandfather who deserved better.
My grandfather who raised a wonderful family despite all odds.
To me, my grandfather is someone who loved with all his heart. Not with wo ai ni but with 你吃了吗 ? He is someone who grew up lonely but chose to project happiness and positivity onto his family. My grandfather grew up so hurt from the wickedness of the world, that he could never believe there was a God, but showed so much love to his family so that they would never have to question the same thing. When my mother’s father died, he left an empire worth hundreds of millions for his three wives’ families to squabble over. When my father’s father died, he didn’t even leave fifty dollars for his own wife. He didn’t care much for wealth or flashy materials. He emphasised on a simple life. He taught me that happiness comes from within, and not from what you possess.
I didn’t cry much at his funeral. I didn’t know how to feel. But my entire shirt is soaked as I’m writing this. Ah Gong, if you’re somehow seeing this from heaven, I hope you’re finally happy. I hope you finally know that you are loved. Will you make me Milo with biscuits when I see you again? I love you.
Love,
Jane.
