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I miss my grandmother. It's been years since she died but I can't help but wish that she was still around. After she died, I lost the reason to keep coming back to the hometown that held so many memories of my childhood. It just didn't feel the same. I could no longer see her smile nor feel her warm embrace. She was gone.
When I look back to the times when she was still alive, I find myself smiling and thinking of the warm mornings when she would prepare my favorite food -- which was either sauteed Chinese noodles or a rice flour delicacy or sweet bread --- and hot chocolate (made from rolled cocoa) and the times when she indulged my inkling to go to the beach (which was 30 minutes away from her house). She was always trying to make us comfortable and happy that we -- my brothers and I -- often felt like not wanting to go back to our own home in the city.
My favorite memory of her was at night, when I was about to go to bed. She used to be the one to get me ready for bed (probably because I asked if she could help me sleep).
"Tell me a story, Grandma! Please..." I'd look at her with puppy-dog eyes, knowing that she'd relent even if she told me several times that I should just sleep.
"Oh, alright. But promise me that you'd sleep after, alright?" She sat at the edge of my bed after tucking me underneath the covers. I could tell that she was trying to find inspiration for a story. Grandmother never read me stories from books... she preferred to tell me made up stories, which I really loved, no matter how strange they sounded. Her eyes fell on the poster on the wall of my Aunt's room which was temporarily being used as a guest room.
"See that picture on the wall?" She pointed to the poster where a large tree and the silhouette of a man was shown. She continued, "That man died after losing the love of his life. You see... " I listened to her morbid story of a man who died by drinking poison. She proceeded to tell me about his great love for a woman who didn't return his affection. Driven by hopelessness and depression, he chose that path. I wasn't deterred by the strangeness of the story. Instead, I found it fascinating how she told me the story. Her eyes sparkled with life as if it was real and her gestures were animated. I was enthralled by watching her.
Then the story ended.
I begged for more, excited to hear more of her made up stories. "Just one more please? I will really sleep after..."
"Okay, one more and that's it." She gave me a reprimanding look. "There was a girl who was told by her parents to come home straight after school. Her parents were concerned about her well-being. But she was a hard-headed child who did not want to be told what to do. She would often come home late, preferring to have dinner with her friend's family than her own. This happened several times that her parents finally confronted her. They reminded her that she had her own house and should not bother her friend's family."
She paused to look at me.
"And then...?" I asked impatiently, spellbound by her story.
"One day, after having dinner at her friend's house and coming home, that girl started to feel dizzy and ran to the toilet to vomit."
She paused again and looked at me with amused eyes.
"Grandma!"
She chuckled, "Impatient, aren't we?" She continued anyway, "After one violent spasm, she coughed something strange that frightened her: a small creature with wings covered in slimy goo. It was a horrible sight."
At that point, my eyes were wide with shock. I was so into her story that it felt almost real. It didn't help that I was part of a superstitious society that had a lot of myths about monsters that ate children. "... she was going to turn into a monster!" I gasped, horrified.
"Yes. That's what happens to little girls who do not believe their parents." My grandmother concluded. "What that girl didn't know was that her friend was part of a family of monsters who were slowly turning her into one of them by letting her eat food that only they could eat." She patted the top of my head. I was still looking shocked.
"We've reached the end of my story. Now get some rest."
"Grandma..." I wanted her to tell me another story.
"If you want more stories, then you better sleep. Tomorrow night, I can tell you a few more."
"Alright. Good night, Grandma." She adjusted my covers and kiss the top of my head before leaving my room.
Back then, I had no idea that she would ignite my love for stories. Because of that fire that she started in me, I have grown to love making my own stories.
What I'd give to hear her tell me another story again.
When I look back to the times when she was still alive, I find myself smiling and thinking of the warm mornings when she would prepare my favorite food -- which was either sauteed Chinese noodles or a rice flour delicacy or sweet bread --- and hot chocolate (made from rolled cocoa) and the times when she indulged my inkling to go to the beach (which was 30 minutes away from her house). She was always trying to make us comfortable and happy that we -- my brothers and I -- often felt like not wanting to go back to our own home in the city.
My favorite memory of her was at night, when I was about to go to bed. She used to be the one to get me ready for bed (probably because I asked if she could help me sleep).
"Tell me a story, Grandma! Please..." I'd look at her with puppy-dog eyes, knowing that she'd relent even if she told me several times that I should just sleep.
"Oh, alright. But promise me that you'd sleep after, alright?" She sat at the edge of my bed after tucking me underneath the covers. I could tell that she was trying to find inspiration for a story. Grandmother never read me stories from books... she preferred to tell me made up stories, which I really loved, no matter how strange they sounded. Her eyes fell on the poster on the wall of my Aunt's room which was temporarily being used as a guest room.
"See that picture on the wall?" She pointed to the poster where a large tree and the silhouette of a man was shown. She continued, "That man died after losing the love of his life. You see... " I listened to her morbid story of a man who died by drinking poison. She proceeded to tell me about his great love for a woman who didn't return his affection. Driven by hopelessness and depression, he chose that path. I wasn't deterred by the strangeness of the story. Instead, I found it fascinating how she told me the story. Her eyes sparkled with life as if it was real and her gestures were animated. I was enthralled by watching her.
Then the story ended.
I begged for more, excited to hear more of her made up stories. "Just one more please? I will really sleep after..."
"Okay, one more and that's it." She gave me a reprimanding look. "There was a girl who was told by her parents to come home straight after school. Her parents were concerned about her well-being. But she was a hard-headed child who did not want to be told what to do. She would often come home late, preferring to have dinner with her friend's family than her own. This happened several times that her parents finally confronted her. They reminded her that she had her own house and should not bother her friend's family."
She paused to look at me.
"And then...?" I asked impatiently, spellbound by her story.
"One day, after having dinner at her friend's house and coming home, that girl started to feel dizzy and ran to the toilet to vomit."
She paused again and looked at me with amused eyes.
"Grandma!"
She chuckled, "Impatient, aren't we?" She continued anyway, "After one violent spasm, she coughed something strange that frightened her: a small creature with wings covered in slimy goo. It was a horrible sight."
At that point, my eyes were wide with shock. I was so into her story that it felt almost real. It didn't help that I was part of a superstitious society that had a lot of myths about monsters that ate children. "... she was going to turn into a monster!" I gasped, horrified.
"Yes. That's what happens to little girls who do not believe their parents." My grandmother concluded. "What that girl didn't know was that her friend was part of a family of monsters who were slowly turning her into one of them by letting her eat food that only they could eat." She patted the top of my head. I was still looking shocked.
"We've reached the end of my story. Now get some rest."
"Grandma..." I wanted her to tell me another story.
"If you want more stories, then you better sleep. Tomorrow night, I can tell you a few more."
"Alright. Good night, Grandma." She adjusted my covers and kiss the top of my head before leaving my room.
Back then, I had no idea that she would ignite my love for stories. Because of that fire that she started in me, I have grown to love making my own stories.
What I'd give to hear her tell me another story again.
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