Grandma, do you remember when I was three? We shared a guest room together and at night, you would tuck me in and say goodnight. Sometimes, I would grind my teeth and you knew I was having a bad dream. You woke me up, gave me a hug, told me it was going to be okay. Then gently, you rubbed my back and I would doze off to sleep. I always fell asleep first and I always woke up last. But remember the one time I woke up before you? I was so excited; I leaped out of bed and startled you awake. That morning I helped you make breakfast. I was so proud.
Grandma, do you remember taking me to church? It was my first time and we had to take the bus. I thought we were going far away. I was afraid you were going to leave me. I cried the whole way there, but you made me feel better. You bought me the most perfectly glazed, warm, and soft doughnut I have ever had. I forgot all about being scared.
Do you remember taking me to school? Mom was away and Dad had to work. You would walk me to school and when I finished, you were always waiting outside. You carried my backpack and held my hand all the way home.
You couldn’t have forgotten about the red chili peppers, right? In the summers, you would lay out hundreds of them on the driveway. The spicy smell stung my eyes and hurt my nose. The neighborhood kids knew me as “the girl who lives in the chili pepper house.” I begged you to dry them in the backyard, but you just shook your head. I hated the summers.
Did you know there was one time when you embarrassed me? It was at my piano recital. The students participating sat in the first two rows. I sat in the first row right underneath a vent. I was wearing a light pink dress with spaghetti straps and I guess I looked cold, because during the middle of someone’s performance, you walked up and tired to drag me away. I refused. You pulled one arm as I held onto my chair with the other. I tried to explain to you that this was my assigned seat. You left in a huff. Everyone was staring, my cheeks turned red and my eyes swelled with tears.
Grandma, do you think you could catch me grasshoppers? You used to catch them for me in your garden. You taught me how to cup my hands and hold them gently. I squealed when they jumped. I really liked the tiny baby ones.
When do you want to eat persimmons again? I was forbidden to touch a knife, so you would always peel them for me. I had so much fun watching the peel get longer and longer, until it was barley dangling. I was so impressed that you were able to peel the skin all in one curly piece.
It’s been about a year since I’ve seen you now. I heard you’re not doing so well. Are you eating well? Sleeping well? I try calling you, but sometimes you don’t even know who I am. Last time I called, you barley recognized me. I was yelling through the phone, but you only heard me half the time. I asked, “How are you?” You replied, “I’ve eaten dinner.”
Everyday you get older, everyday you spend more time sleeping, everyday you remember less. Uncle Dixon has already bought your plot. Dad has recently bought a black suit and now, he’s shopping for shoes. Gomo (Aunt) is saving up money, making plans to move back to Korea. Everyone is preparing. It doesn’t seem real. I wish it were dream. Please wake me up. Please hug me and tell me it’s going to be okay. Please buy me a doughnut so I forget that I am afraid.
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