Yesterday at dusk, my mom steamed some red bean paste buns and sent me to take some to my maternal grandparents. Since both my grandma and grandpa are already in their eighties, meals are made in turn by my mom and a few aunts; today it was my younger aunt’s turn.
When I entered the house, the two elders were watching TV, an episode of Da Zhai Men. A few years ago, my grandma was harmed by a gas leak, and her hearing gradually began to deteriorate. In recent years her memory has also become terribly poor. Each time I come over, usually she can remember my name, but sometimes she can’t. When she saw me push the door open, she waved me over and asked me to sit beside her. I told my grandpa why I’d come, wrapped the buns properly in the basket, and then sat down next to my grandma.
Because my mom had also made red bean soup at home, after sitting for a short while I got up, told my grandpa the reason, and was about to leave. As soon as I straightened up, I leaned close to my grandma’s ear and said that there was food at home and I’d go back to eat. My grandma seemed to have caught the general idea and understood that I was going to leave. She said, why are you leaving, there are buns here, stay and eat. As she spoke, she grabbed my arm with surprising strength and pulled me back down to sit. I looked over at my grandpa with a smile; it didn’t feel right to insist on leaving, so I sat back down again.
My grandma began repeating what she’d just said: there’s food here, eat before you go.
I kept her company for a while longer. When I saw that it was getting dark, I again leaned to her ear and said, there’s food at home, I’ll go back to eat, I have to head home. Hearing this, my grandma took my hand and held it tight, repeating several more times that I should stay. I repeated several times that there was food at home, and only then did she begin to relent.
“Then will you come back this afternoon?” My grandma had gotten confused again, mistaking dusk for noon. She was asking if I’d be back in the afternoon. Explaining to her that it wasn’t midday anymore was no simple task. Because of cerebellar aging, she often can’t keep track of the time of day, and in recent years it’s become even more frequent. Sometimes when she wakes from a nap at noon she thinks it’s early morning, or if she dozes for a bit at midday she thinks it’s already night; it all happens.
Just then, my younger aunt, who was in the kitchen cooking, came out. She saw me practically shouting and still unable to make things clear, and quickly came over and said she’d handle it: yes, he’ll come back this afternoon. I finally managed to “get away,” and my grandma let go of my hand.
Although my grandma is often muddled now, some facts—like that it’s currently evening, and that it might be a few days before I come again—really don’t need to be taken too seriously. Every time, though, I still want to explain things clearly to her: to make it clear that it’s evening, that I’m going back home to have dinner, and that I’ll come again in a few days. But this time I didn’t say more. I said goodbye to my younger aunt and my grandpa and walked out the door.
As I got into the elevator, the feeling of my grandma’s tight grip on my hand suddenly made me think of my paternal grandma, who has been gone for many years now.
It’s been nearly ten years since my paternal grandma passed away. Back then I had no real excuse; I was just young and didn’t want to take the long trip back to my hometown to see her. Each year I only went back on holidays and for my grandparents’ birthdays, and even then we usually headed back right after lunch.
Long before that, my grandma had fallen ill and lost strength in half her body. She could only manage very simple sounds when speaking, but each time she would hold my hand tightly and say something loudly. I couldn’t understand her; in fact nobody really could. The adults could only guess at what she meant and “translate” it for me, sentence by sentence. Thinking back now, it was mostly things like telling me to study hard. One of the very few words she could clearly pronounce was “Beijing.” My grandma wanted me to get into a university in Beijing. Now I’m 25, and it seems there’s no longer any hope of going to Beijing.
Another thought suddenly came to me: the elders spend their whole lives understanding their children and grandchildren, reasoning with them, yet it’s only after becoming as muddled as my grandma that they finally get a chance to express what they really want. If we’re “being reasonable,” then since there’s food at home, I should go home to eat. My grandpa understood me and was helping persuade my grandma to let me go. But my grandma, muddled now, did not understand—that is, she was “being unreasonable.” She wanted me to stay and eat, and she said so: she wanted me to stay and eat.
She’s grown old, and all I did was leave home to go to college.
She’s been old for a long time.