...and what alice found there

Friday, August 10, 2007

Qin Jia Yuan

He was sitting in his wicker chair. and his heart just stopped.

My grandpa died the same week as Ingmar Bergman. well 10 days later. still, he would've been proud. he was about 20 years younger than Ingmar though. I had prepared myself, ever since I came back from a visit 3 years ago, that it'll happen like this, we'd be far away, worrying about our own worries, and then there'd be a phone call. Three years ago I used to cry whenever I saw a pair of frail old hands, thinking that I might never see his pair again. I had hoped, some small hope, that we'd be able to get him here, fix his heart, fix his eyes, and I'd help him write his memoirs. I'd make him hand write them because I wanted the world to see his beautiful penmanship. He was eccentric the way most grandparents are eccentric. but they were his, and i understood them, and i loved them. Whenever I shake hands with someone I'd always remember how he used to tell me to go about my business, but then every few minutes would call me back into the room urgently, and then with nothing really to say he would sheepishly shake my hand. The road that I live off is Tu La Ke Lu (Toorak Road), and how picky he was about his food. I'm really just as picky as him, but nicer about it and would eat it even if I don't like it. I used to try to picture him as the flamboyant playboy of the east coast. (that's China, not Miami) the mistress he had and the daughter who's only ten years older than me.

he was always peaceful in his wicker chair. he probably had his giant jar of tea with him,an old Nestcafe jar, the Gold Blend because it has the curved sides that he can hold on to. I wonder what he was thinking about in those last moments. probably something about making a fresh pot of the good stuff he stole from mum two weeks ago. the man loved his tea. so do I when I come to think of it.

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