Xiang

words by Jasmine Wang, art by Sarah Jun

In the two weeks after 妈 (mā) had passed, I would often forget and then remember that it was just the two of us now—me and my grandmother, my 姥姥 (lǎo lao). Although, in those moments, it often felt like it was just me. 

In those days, 姥姥 (lǎo lao) felt like a ghost haunting our home—still lingering, still waiting for someone or something that would never come. Even on her more lucid days, our conversations still felt abbreviated, like awkward strangers who had just stepped into acquaintance.

—

Now, ten years later, I remember few things from the day we buried 妈 (mā).

妈, I think you would’ve hated your funeral. I did. 

The stiff starched collar that scratched at my neck. 

The low mist that sunk into her grave alongside her casket. 

Chilled breaths and silent tears, followed by a blurred stream of polite condolences, wrapped in modest black dresses and crisp white button-ups. 

Hands, their hands—soft wrinkles, scarred wrists, gnawed fingernails, leathered calluses. Hands that told stories of all they had loved, lost, and sacrificed. I wonder now if you’re painted on my palms.

“妈, i once heard only the dead can keep secrets. Can you keep mine?”

Their apologies, all echoing into each other. Floods of “I’m sorry for your loss.” I chuckle now, wondering if there was a book they were all assigned to read—The Guide to Grief: How to Broach Bereavement.

Whispers dripping with pity, “at least he still has family…at least he still has his grandmother.” But as I watched them turn to find 姥姥 adrift by the windowsill, lost in the somber gray sea of her own eyes, I could hear what they really meant—”how awful it is, that he only has his grandmother.”  

妈, i once heard only the dead can keep secrets. Can you keep mine?

姥姥’s eyes are the only ones I remember from that day. I kept thinking that I was so glad she was blind. I kept thinking that she was so lucky to not see her daughter buried. 

—

妈 had cared for the three of us for a long time, and for her mother long before I was born. 姥姥 had always been distant—always tucked away in her own mind, furiously painting in her studio. But 妈 always told me to be nice. 妈 said 姥姥 had endured lifetimes of grief in the just shy of seventy-six years that she had been alive. 

The first great loss 姥姥’s life was her true love, Bo Wen—her life partner, 妈’s father, and my grandfather. 姥姥 was forty-three at the peak of her career as a prolific artist, filling prestigious galleries with painted masterpieces, when Bo Wen suddenly passed at forty-one. 

The second great loss of 姥姥’s life was her first love, the world of art. Amidst her grief for Bo Wen, she received a terminal diagnosis—neurofibromatosis. Though as a kid, I was only told that 姥姥 had long lived with the disease, but would eventually go blind. 

“But in that moment, she could hear what he really meant. That she was truly alone and her art would not save her.”

Even in spite of the loss, even as cataracts began to bloom in her irises, she still reached for her brushes as if they were her own fingers. In the months after Bo Wen’s death, 妈 told me how 姥姥 spent it locked in her studio, perpetually painting, feeding on memory and despair. 妈 told me she clung to her first love like a raft amidst a violent sea of mourning. 

When she finally debuted her latest pieces, her art had changed. 

Gone were her paintings filled with joyful passion, soft lust, and calculated conflict. Now her work was “confusing” and “juvenile,” forever marred by an untenable sorrow.

“It will never sell,” her agent repeated. “I’m sorry.” 

But in that moment, she could hear what he really meant. That she was truly alone and her art would not save her. She could feel herself sinking now, her heart submerged beneath a suffocating tide of sorrow. At the moment, she knew she would have to bury that life alongside her lover. 

But even as the art world abandoned her, even as her capsizing heart sank even further, 姥姥 remained stubborn. 

“A painter paints,” she said. And so she continued to paint. In fact, that was just about all she did.

“So at fourteen, 妈 had to grow up early, in the way that some young children are forced to.”

So at fourteen, 妈 had to grow up early, in the way that some young children are forced to. Every morning, she would guide 姥姥 down the rickety stairs for breakfast and then lead her to her studio, where she would crack open a window and leave a plate of food next to 姥姥’s easel, before heading off to school. 

Every evening, she would arrive home from her part-time job at the corner store, just as the sun took refuge beneath the skyline. Though 妈 was too young to work legally, the corner’s store’s owner, Mr. Baek was an old family friend from Bo Wen’s poker playing days. Whether 妈 got the job out of pity or generosity, she didn’t really care because they needed all the money they could get and Mr. Baek kindly agreed to pay her in cash. 

Sometimes she would even get to take home the ready-made food that was being thrown out. On those days, her grumbling stomach was filled more with gratitude than with the expiring kimbap or baos. On other days, she would arrive home and quickly assemble an eclectic meal for her and her mother. Then once again, she would guide her mother to the dinner table before taking her upstairs for a soft sponge bath. 

—

In these two weeks following 妈’s death, 姥姥 often called out her name, so much so that I would look up and expect to see her figure in the doorway. But when her perfume failed to drift into the room to announce her entrance, I would remember again and dutifully scamper to 姥姥’s side. 

Though I resented 姥姥 for receding into girlhood, that cast both 妈 and I into unwanted roles, I found myself unable to abandon 姥姥. Suddenly 姥姥 became my only anchor to my 妈. My adolescent, boyish voice and kind palms made 妈 and I indistinguishable by sound and touch. For 姥姥, that was enough. I thought of 妈 much during those moments—of her as a grieving girl who had just lost her father but had to grow into motherhood herself. 

As I tended to 姥姥, I sifted through my memories, like clearing out a pocket filled with lint. I searched for places where I could see her clearly, standing outside of motherhood, still a girl. 

I remembered 妈’s long billowing skirt on my first day of kindergarten. I remembered hiding between its ripples, the way deer dart between oak trees and fish sneak between swift tides. I remembered being afraid of lethal stares from the other kids, the way deer fear the marksman’s bullet or fish fear the fisherman’s hook. I remembered how 妈 caught me, grabbing my shoulders with firm hands before crouching down to meet my eyes. 

I can see her eyes sparkling now, like the last twinkle of moonlight caught in the first blush of dawn.

“In those two weeks tending to 姥姥, I felt my 妈 moving through me. I could feel her gentle touch in my fingertips and taste her patience on my tongue.”

“Can I tell you a secret,” she whispered. I nodded, still anxious to enter the warzone of kindergarten politics. 

“Did you know that everyone who loves you takes a little piece of you,” she asked gently, holding up a hand with a pinched index and thumb. She looked up at her hand with a squinted eye. “Look see, this is my piece of you.”

“Hey, give it back,” I exclaimed, lurching for her hand. Her laughter cascaded, like rushing down a waterfall.

“宝贝 (bǎo bèi), don’t worry” she smiled warmly, pausing to smooth down my stubborn cowlick, “Everyone also leaves a piece of themselves with you.” She looked at me again, now pointing at my heart.

“This is where that piece of 妈妈 lives. 妈妈 is always with you, I promise.” She took a deep breath, widening her eyes. “Can we be brave and do kindergarten together?”

In those two weeks tending to 姥姥, I felt my 妈 moving through me. I could feel her gentle touch in my fingertips and taste her patience on my tongue. If my 妈 had taken a piece of me, I was glad to have traded it for a piece of her. 

—

Like my 妈, I had learned the word “grief” very young as a child. Just a few weeks before my fifth birthday, 妈 picked me up from school on the coldest day of winter and asked if I wanted to get ice cream. It was an unusual proposal, but my smile glistened against the sparkling snow with a resounding yes. As I licked my blueberry cheesecake waffle cone clean, she told me that my father had left us.

妈 said it was okay to grieve. I asked her what “grieve” meant, the “r” gargling in the back of my throat. “Grief,” she told me, “means to be sad over losing daddy.” 

But I couldn’t yet fathom the scale of that loss. I remember nodding my head happily with an ice cream smeared smile, far too preoccupied with my sticky hands to recognize the sullen look in her eyes. 

“Grief was fleeting like changing seasons. It was a love that was lost, but soon to be recovered.  ”

Back then, grief was what I felt when my favorite blanket was being washed, or when 妈 refused my demands for a playdate at my best friend JP’s house down the street. Grief was fleeting like changing seasons. It was a love that was lost, but soon to be recovered.  

Two weeks after the day 妈 told me that my father had left, I saw my mother as a girl again. I had arrived home from school a couple minutes early and skipped up the stairs to surprise 妈, only to be greeted by a soft sobbing hidden behind her closed bedroom door. I quietly cracked the door open to find 妈 crumpled on the edge of the bed like dirty laundry, clutching a worn sweater my dad had left behind. 

It was only then that I began to realize that my father was not coming back and that I had lost something that would never be recovered. I would never get a goodbye or an explanation for his leaving. He was simply gone. And with him, his piece of me. 

—

Once again, two weeks later and I wondered when it would all hit me.

I took the long way home, not yet ready to face the dull haze of our empty home. The biting wind chill felt nice against my eyes, which still stung with phantom tears. Eventually as the pale sun began to graze the horizons of suburbia, I finally trudged towards home. 

It was unexpectedly bright inside; a familiar warmth wafted through the house. I trailed it to the kitchen, where 姥姥 sat at the counter with her back turned. 

“You’re home late,” she said, as I padded into the kitchen. There was a clarity in her voice today. 

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, “I didn’t really want to come home today,” I said.

“There’s cake for you in the fridge,” she nodded. “Your favorite. I asked Mr. Baek to help make it.” 

“I’m sorry for making you wait.” Most days, it seemed like 姥姥 didn’t know where she was, much less what day it was. “I didn’t realize you’d do anything.” 

“My birthday. I had spent the walk home thinking of how I had already unknowingly celebrated my last birthday with 妈. ”

She turned sharply to look at me. I wondered how clearly she could see me with her misty eyes. “I know, it’s not the same and I know, we’re meant to be grieving, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to celebrate your seventeenth birthday.”

My birthday. I had spent the walk home thinking of how I had already unknowingly celebrated my last birthday with 妈. 

There would be no more birthday notes tucked into my lunchbox, no more lavish birthday feasts made in my honor, no more waking up to 妈’s off-key singing, no more birthday candles hidden beneath my pillow for the fictional birthday fairy that 妈 made up when I was four. 

No more birthdays with 妈. 

“Thank you… 谢谢 (xièxiè),” I said finally, shattering the stillborn silence between us, “for all this.” 

—

We sat side by side at the kitchen counter, each with a slice of cake.

“I miss her,” I said, staring at the first bite on my fork.  

“我也想她 (wǒ yě xiǎng tā),” she replied. In chinese, wǒ yě xiǎng tā means, I miss them too. Except the word xiang can take on many meanings. Xiang can mean miss, think, want, or wish.

妈, 我想你 (wǒ xiǎng nǐ). 

妈, I think of you.

妈, I wish for you.

妈, I want you.

妈, we miss you. 

“Sometimes I worry that I will forget…” My voice trailed off.

“Saying goodbye lasts for so many years... I will keep reaching for him until we are finally able to grasp each other again.”

“你不会的 (nǐ bù huì de).” You won’t.

“You don’t know that,” I said, my every word a tightrope walker, teetering on the edge of regret. There are still days, even now in adulthood, when I worry that I will finally reach a day when I have missed her for more days than I have known her. And that all our time together will pass like a bad cold—fierce and feverish—leaving no traces behind. 

On those days, I remember my 姥姥.

“I do know,” she paused. Though her voice was unwavering, I noticed a tear begin to well in the corner of her eye. “I know, because I didn’t.”

“Grandpa?” She nodded.

“When he first died, people said my grief would pass with time. But, it never did,” she paused. “Or maybe I didn’t want it to.” 

“Why not?”

“Saying goodbye lasts for so many years. Grief means to be forever homesick. It keeps you reaching back for what is no longer there. And I love him, so I will always return. The way the tide grasps towards the shore, or the shadow clings to the light, and the ripple chases after the stone. I will keep reaching for him until we are finally able to grasp each other again.”

I reached for her hand, with a firm squeeze. I could feel her body now leaking with longing. She understood what it meant to lose, but more importantly what it mean to lose 妈.

“As our laughter echoed together like coins clattering down a wishing well, I remembered again that it was just the two of us now—me and 姥姥—and I smiled. ”

“我每天都会想念他们,” she whispered. I will miss them every day. “我是好幸运啊 (wǒ shì hǎo xìngyùn a).” How lucky am I for that.

“我们多么幸运啊 (wǒmen duōme xìngyùn a).” How lucky we are. I clutched her hand again, recognizing her not as an anchor but another fragile boat, sails tattered by a storm of grief. As each wave of sorrow rolled over us and as we struggled to stay afloat, we clung to each other as our only compass. 

She flipped her palm to grasp mine with a warm squeeze. “Now, let’s try this cake before it goes stale,” she said, her eyes nudging towards my plate. As we stuffed our mouths with giant forkfuls of cake, we scrunched our noses at the taste.

“It’s not very good, is it,” she smiled, with the same toothiness as 妈. 

“No, no it isn’t.”

As our laughter echoed together like coins clattering down a wishing well, I remembered again that it was just the two of us now—me and 姥姥—and I smiled.