i remember the time he stopped remembering.
when the pause before my name
gave me enough time to count all his wrinkles
until a pat and sigh
signaled my time with him was over
i still remember.

i remember when at 10 years old
he became the shortest, and i, the second shortest in family photos.
the wheels hush-clicked beneath him
as the camera flashed for our last upright moment together
i didn’t know the seams were loosening
but i still remember.

if life were a tapestry
his threads of color would be intertwined with the spindle that weaves mine
the life he lived was no short of a tale
a tale with chapters i got to be in

i made myself learn every zodiac sign for his smile
so his eyes would creak just right when i named the one he painted for me
every first morning of chinese new year

i remember the soft hum of his old house
an afternoon like any other
as he looked at a little chatterbox dangling her feet above a pool of sunshine
tattling on her father for not getting her the doll she wanted: me

i woke up that afternoon not knowing i had drifted to sleep
grandpa was gone, but next to the pillow he placed under my head
a few notes and coins with 6 characters written on a paper slip
姑娘开心就好—as long as my granddaughters happy

3 years of dust blankets that note now
in that old house
it must be so empty.

the sickness i didn’t see around the corner took him away
shredded his tapestry
teared away threads of him that belonged in my heart

a taunting bright screen stared back at me when the news came
the 10 seconds it took for two words
he died

the 10 years it will take for those two words to sink in
and the 10 more it will take for me to miss him

i miss you grandpa

​

i really do

rest in peace.