The message from my wife came in the afternoon: 'Grandma has passed away.' She had reached home that afternoon, and Grandma died that evening. The next morning they would be up at four to see her off. I was far away in Beijing. A few days earlier my wife had told me that Grandma was ill, that she would not eat or drink, and that they could not get food into her.
The time before last I saw Grandma was during last year's National Day holiday. I spent the day at my father-in-law's house with my brother-in-law, husking corn. Before we left, my wife and her older sister went to visit Grandma. Grandma held their hands, asked after them, and was quiet. I stood by the kang, looking at the fu character on the wall and out the window at the calf belonging to Fourth Uncle's family. When we said goodbye, the two sisters' eyes filled with tears. My wife told me that Grandma had seemed to say much more to them this year, always asking when they would come back next.
The last time I saw her was this Spring Festival. A small extension had been built along the outer edge of the big kang, and Grandma sat on it. Her face was full of the furrows of age. She ate a soft persimmon and now and then joined the conversation. She was ninety-seven that year. Everyone said she would live to a hundred.
My wife told me that when her aunt died a few years ago, she had not felt much. Recently, thinking about it, she felt a pain in her heart. I said that in the past she had not had such fine, delicate feelings; Grandma's illness had stirred her thoughts, and emotion grew like grass after rain on rich soil. She was preparing to go home to see Grandma. Many relatives had already gone back.
I sent my wife a hugging emoji to comfort her, then went to eat dinner. Later, alone at home in the quiet, a feeling I could not name began to spread, and fragmented memories surfaced.
My wife said that one of the aunts was supposed to take her turn caring for Grandma but went back to work early because her time was short. Grandma was unhappy about it and scolded many people. At another point she had a serious cold, and her children put her in burial clothes. The stubborn little old woman pulled through. During those days in the shroud, two or three of her children and grandchildren slept on the same kang with her.
Grandma was born in 1928. She lived through the War of Resistance Against Japan and the Liberation War, witnessed the founding of New China when she was young, crossed the millennium, and during the three years of masks lived healthily and in modest circumstances. My wife said the secret to her long life was that she did not let things fester inside. She was a tough old lady who would not be bullied. She listened to the radio and often followed the health exercises on it. Whether they did any good was unclear, but she kept at them for years. Her teeth and appetite were good.
That is all the memory I have of Grandma, limited as it is. People say old people become like children. Seeing her hold a little girl doll, I felt a pang, and my eyes reddened. She was lovable and worthy of respect. At Spring Festival she handed me an orange and told me to eat sunflower seeds.
There will be no next Spring Festival visit to Grandma.