At the Feet of My Grandma

The stories about Vietnam always told of how hard it was for them all. At least that life of poverty, where, in my mind, they barely had enough money for shirts and shoes, had been long past. That journey, I am sure, had been difficult. And this, her final journey, must also have been. Yet I hope she will, again, find happiness on the other side.
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The machine whirred…sighed…stirred….exhaled. As I lay on my side, staring at the once vibrant life of my grandmom, an unyielding tremor reverberated across her room, shaking me. Her chest rises slowly. Whisper, cough, drip. A slow procession of family members trickles in and out. I hope I never see this for me. Click.
Memories start to drift. The mornings where she used to take care of me. Walking to the bus stop with her. Eating her gift to all the grandchildren: bread, butter and sugar. Red xoi. Jumping on her bed. That time she saved me from the department store escalator, among other hazards, real or imagined. We all smile.
A call at 5 a.m. wakes me up to the worst news I have ever heard. Thankfully, not hours earlier, I had been able to say a few last words. Later I would look, but I could never find them again.
As I arrived to her house, a fresh day had broken, and the crisp Arizonan sunrise had already begun in earnest. We take turns in her room, honoring her memory. Orange erupts from the gray outside. A Buddhist hymn plays in the back ground. She is taken from her home in the early morning, and the grieving sobs turn into more desperate wails. A primitive, heart-felt sorrow. The sound scares me. Suddenly, we are all barefoot on the driveway, watching the ubiquitous white utility van drive away.
As Cameron told me, death is a part of life. And he should know, he’s a nurse. Who can say if, in this immaturity of mine, I actually understand that. But maybe I am beginning to.
No matter, grandma has built a large, strong, and loving family. And there is no greater feat.