return to basics

in loving memory of 阿嬷
02.09.2008

Death is taboo. We no longer say someone is dead, we use a polite euphemism of death, 'passed away', as if it makes any difference. As though by shying away from such a direct term, it would chip away at some of the harsh reality.

The memory of my grandfather's death still remains raw in my mind. I don't talk about it. The skeletons of yesteryear's memories still crusade through my disturbed mind. I still have nightmares about it, I still get startled awake by it. It seems like it happened only yesterday, when my father came up to me when I was preparing for work one morning, that my grandfather passed away that morning.

I still remember his face no longer looking back at me from behind the cold, unfeeling metal of the coffin. I still remember my auntie bawling her eyes out on the day of the burial, her hands clinging onto the side of the coffin, and before a crowd of hundreds, screaming her lungs out with utter sorrow at her father's death. I still remember all of us standing in line as we witnessed the coffin being lowered into the fire, and the burning emotions that it lit up within us. I still remember the white ashes that I let slip from my hands back into the box. I still remember, one year on, my family standing before my grandfather's grave, my mother standing beside me, my auntie standing beside my mother and saying to her, "Look, Cousin Michelle has grown so much fatter." I still remember myself thinking whether it was appropriate discussing such matters in front of grandpa's grave. I still remember two days after the burial, my grandmother sitting in the living room, in the dark. It was the first time the TV wasn't switched on. It was the first time the lights were off. I still remember my sister asking my grandmother, "Ah ma, do you want to watch TV? I can switch it on for you." And, my grandma replying, "Grandpa is dead. What's there to watch?" I still remember my sister's silence, because no words could fill the empty void. My sister's silence must have been accompanied by feelings of loss and uneasiness.

My elder sister tells me that attending a funeral is like going to church. Because you don't have to go to church to believe in God, but because you believe that you must, you go. In the same vein, you don't have to attend a funeral to grief, but because, i don't know, you go.

It's true. I think I grieved harder than if I were to be present at Grandma's funeral.

One cousin remarked that because she hadn't attended the funeral, the death of Grandma hadn't fully registered in her mind, and she hadn't really grieved. I was physically present during Grandpa's funeral, yet, not at Grandma's. And, yet when I received the news that Grandma had passed away, I grieved harder than over Grandpa's death.

Regret is a stinging sensation, an emotional wound in my heart and also the nagging sense of a guilty conscience. It suddenly struck me that no longer will there be anyone for me to ignore, for me to walk pass without saying a word, for me to rush past when I'm late in the early mornings, and for me to stroll away from because I was in a rush to sit in front of a wired-up device. And, I realize that no longer, will my father scold me with disappointment for not spending enough time with Ah Ma, no longer will he chide me for not informing Ah Ma about my whereabouts, no longer will my heart be filled with anger and bitterness at my father's scoldings all because I couldn't be bothered to say a little greeting to Ah Ma.

No longer will Ah Ma sit down with me at dinner, and tell me how much she misses my sister. No longer will she take my hand and tell me that she loves all of us so very much. No longer will she talk about how much she misses my grandfather. I still remember the times where she was so feeble to move around on her own, that I had to support her for her daily walks. And, I remember her clutching onto my arm, so tightly that it hurt. And, I remember thinking what soft, wrinkled hands she had, so delicate, like that of a fragile new-born's.

Because I've not been the best granddaughter, the tears that flood my face now seems so borrowed, the wounds that reside in me seem so hypocritical, and my mind screams out endlessly for more time, more time, more time...before a response echoes back, that time waits for no man. And, the reason why my heart aches, is because I've had so much thoughts of how to treat her better when I return home, and my sister's pain is because she never spent enough time with Ah Ma, because she was always out with her friends. I realize then that time might be our perfect excuse for procrastination, but it is also man's weakest justification.

Let me return to basics, please. Let me give up a little of my dreams, slowly.