Til death do us part
For my grandmother,
and women elsewhere.
When I think about death I think about my grandmother. I have never been particularly close to her, yet on the few occasions that I am with her, I feel like I could be myself and it is very comfortable.
I got to spend some time with my grandmother when she moved to stay with my parents a few years ago. Her memories were starting to come in waves: absent most of the time, then vivid and overwhelming all of a sudden. After dinner, I would help her take the medicines and then sit next to her, listening to the stories that kept coming in no coherent order. I let her pour her past into me, turning myself into a vessel. Containing the details about a life that gave my own.
When I think about death I think about our connection that never quite was and will forever be lost. Not long after I got reintroduced to my grandmother as an adult, memories started to escape her mind and life evaded her body, slowly. Her passing on will put a stop to our sentence that was only half-spoken. Therefore death, to me, is unknown in every possible way.
In writing about death I would like to write about the life of my grandmother. As an act of reciting a poem that will otherwise be forgotten. A celebration of what little I know about my beloved, and a lament for all the things I will never get to know.
My grandma got married when she was 13, grandpa 11 at the time. On the wedding day, he jumped off the car to play with the firecrackers.
My great-grandma slept between them for 10 years. At 21, after almost a decade of being married, my grandma’s marriage was consummated for the first time.
Children were born. Grandma had 9 miscarriages, birthed 7 times, 2 of the infants passed away before names were given.
My grandma never went to school. She learned to plow first, then the alphabet. She learned The Tale of Kieu by heart. Later in life, she wrote poems. My mother typed the poems down and printed them out on the family printer. The words have remained mostly unread, entirely uncelebrated.
In sickness and in health. My grandma’s health started to deteriorate when she hit menopause. Heart disease, Parkinson’s, high blood pressure, liver failure.
For better or for worse. My grandma raised five kids by selling groceries. My grandpa was a teacher, which didn’t pay much. On a good day, he could afford some tofu, cigarettes, and a fresh newspaper. On bad days, there would be little rice and lots of sweet potatoes, the taste of which my father hates until today.
Until death do us part. My grandpa passed away in 1999 and grandma has been on her own ever since. Every year, on March 14th, she would be home to take care of the ceremony. On grandpa’s memorial day, there is always a lot of food and mangoes. People would gather around and eat, my grandma — the wife — would always be the last one to dine. Everyone would greet her and ask, always: Have you been healthy?
On my part, I wonder: Has my grandma been happy?
A few years ago when we talked after dinner, I realized that my grandma has never seen the sea. She has never seen the sea, just so that I can be overseas. Just so that sometimes, we cannot pronounce the lives that give ours. For the alphabet starts with A and not the past. Most lives are not history, for most lives are not told, nor memorized.
My grandma’s health is getting worse by the month. I figure that I would never really know if she has ever really felt loved and cherished, in sickness and in health; or hear all the stories she could have told, for better or for worse. Her life is, and mine is. A connection so vague and inevitable, reaches beyond the line at which death does us part.
