My early childhood is a collection of snippets—endless summers in Fuzhou and the fresh breeze that made time stand still. I recall stumbling, with my tiny, stubby toes, onto my great-grandmother’s balcony, and seeing her slowly hanging our washed clothes onto a thin string that stretched hundreds of feet off the ground. Sometimes I’d stand on a chair and watch her as she cooked. My late-night cravings for doughy balls filled with brown, saucy meat could only be truly satisfied by her cooking. We bonded throughout those summers despite the language barrier, making it hard for me to grasp everything she said.
Although I was born and raised in New York, my heart was always drawn to Fuzhou—the city I returned to every few years, feeling more connected to it each time. Fuzhou, my father’s birthplace in China, held the quiet weight of belonging.
But around the time I was 9, the trips home stopped—no profound reason, just the way life has a habit of expanding until it fills every available moment. Days don’t just pass; they accumulate, and “someday” quietly disappears beneath the urgency of everything else.
One night, just after my 16th birthday, my family was about to sit down for dinner. My dad scrolling on Instagram, my mom serving the food, and my brother running down the hall. Once the bubbly conversation died down, my mom broke the silence.
“Your great-grandma passed away. Your grandma just sent the text in the group chat.”
It felt like a punch to the stomach. I imagined the cloudy stairs to heaven with Jesus or God standing at the front gates. I ached for my great-grandmother’s embrace and the joy behind her smile. Her laughter, laced with sarcasm, and her hands, their lines forming a delicate map of every year she spent shaping my character. Her soft touch, her love expressed through delicious food and endless red envelopes, her denial of being old.
A few months earlier, we had found out she had a tumor on her thyroid. The doctor explained the stakes of the operating table and the reality that she was nearing the final chapter of her long narrative. Our WeChat video calls became our lifeline during those final weeks, bridging the distance between us. Her last few days were spent on a rough wooden bed, alongside her eldest daughter—my grandmother—and son. My grandmother described it to us later: How my great-grandmother smiled more than usual, holding my grandmother’s hand tighter and longer than ever, as if to say everything without speaking.
“Wo ai ni,” she said. I love you.
“Wo ye ai ni,” my grandma replied, as my great-grandmother smiled one last time. I love you too.
Feeling Alone in My Grief
I tried to push away the pain as I dug through my endless homework assignments, but I couldn’t help but think about how, despite having a plethora of friends and family members, I didn’t really have anyone to confide in. It wasn’t that I failed to trust others, or that I wasn’t capable of releasing the sadness trapped in my heart; it was that I didn’t think there was a specific person who could understand what I felt.
After a couple of days, I decided to try to speak to my dad. My father was the sort of man to recoil from his own feelings—not to avoid the gaze of others, but to avoid the label of a coward in his own eyes. He was in his chair, eyes bloodshot from staying up half the night to look at the funeral photos.
Tapping his shoulder gently, I said, “Dad …You alright?”
“Yeah, just taking it easy.”
From his tone, I knew he was hurting. He spent most of his childhood with her, a woman who played such an important role in his life that she was the first person he’d introduce his new girlfriends to. Although she was in her 90s, he probably wasn’t expecting the loss to happen so soon. In my family, reaching the hundred-year mark is common. She was nearing that extraordinary milestone before the tumor on her thyroid took over.
“Dad, if you ever need anyone to talk to, I’m here for you,” I said. “You’re not alone.”
He didn’t respond, but in those brown eyes of his, I saw a side of him that was begging for safety and warmth. As the man of the house, my dad usually has a masculine, unfazed façade. I wanted him to know that loved ones are willing to listen to what he has to say.
I retreated to my room and pulled the door shut, letting the quiet finally take over.
Facing Grief Together
A couple of weeks later, I gathered enough courage to confront my father about his feelings. Unlike him, I find it difficult to keep feelings bottled up, and I wanted to talk about my great-grandmother with someone who also knew her well. I trembled with hesitancy, the kind that makes your heart beat in your throat. We didn’t speak at first, but the silence said everything.
“Let’s talk about the obvious elephant in the room,” he said finally.
I eagerly took up the subject. “I mean, us two, even though our relationship dynamic with my great-grandmother was different, we can still relate with experiences and probably meaning, right?”
He thought for a moment. “Yeah, I know it’s hard to accept what happened, but no one lives forever. At some point, we all have to go, even if it’s unexpected.”
I realized then that she hadn’t truly left; she continues to exist in each of us, her memory bringing us closer.
As we finally addressed her death, I felt a sense of peace. In my family, death was a stranger we never invited to the table, mostly because we rarely had to face it. Being able to talk about it made me feel understood.
“I miss her a lot. Dad, do you remember the old playground below the apartment building, with the bouncy animal rides? Great-grandma would bring us there when we woke up too early,” I recalled.
My dad brought up a memory: “During dinner time, your uncle and I stared at each other, and we would laugh so much to the point where your great-grandma started questioning our sanity.”
That made me laugh. My brother and I often laugh without a single word exchanged, prompting me to wonder if her reaction would have been similar.
“Dad, how do I go on?” I asked.
He didn’t respond right away, but in that silence, I felt a new strength in our bond. I realized then that she hadn’t truly left; she continues to exist in each of us, her memory bringing us closer.
“You’re going to live life like a normal person. It’s going to take some getting used to, but you’ll be OK. She would be so proud of you.”
Finding Her in Myself
Over the next few days, I started to notice how my gestures and physical traits resembled hers. The way my cheeks lift when I smile, the way the shape of my eyes mirrors hers, soft and round. The way her whimsical nature and quirks have become a part of who I am today—someone who isn’t afraid to show my authenticity.
She possessed a rare form of courage—most people wear “social masks” to fit in, but she didn’t perform for others. She was the same person in a crowded room as she was in her own kitchen.
Sometimes, I hear her laughter in my own moments of happiness. I find myself repeating the same gentle advice she used to—give yourself breaks, be kind to yourself, face fear with small steps. She taught me to keep going. At 97 years of age, she did her daily grocery shopping, never depending on anyone. She was the kind of woman who navigated the market aisles as if she were on a grand adventure, turning the most basic errands into a celebration of simply being alive.
I think the main reason she lived a long and peaceful life was because of her dedication to her physical health. She used to take walks before and after breakfast, and after dinner. As a teenager in New York City, I didn’t appreciate the outdoors as much as I’d like to, but now I know that keeping your body moving is valuable.
As I sat with the reality of the fact that she’s no longer here, I had a simple, heavy realization: She had spent her life showing me how to be OK on my own, just by the way she lived hers. Even though I only spent a small portion of my early life around her, her presence was enough to teach me to take care of myself, speak my mind, stay educated through books and newspapers, and, of course, spend time with loved ones before they’re gone.
After she passed, I found myself making more and more time for my grandma, our days falling into a rhythm of traveling together and more frequent visits. I see the best parts of her in my grandmother, and I’m more than lucky that those qualities found their way to me. When I think about the person I’ve become, I see her independence in my own lineage—the simple, steady habit of showing up for yourself and taking what you need from the world without waiting for permission. I see it in the way I sign up for advanced classes on my own, and wander through the farmer’s market.
You never truly understand the weight of someone until they’re gone. The sharp daggers of grief eventually soften, leaving behind something like that old Fuzhou breeze—quiet, steady, and still. Turning back the clock is impossible, but there is a peace in realizing those unrepeatable moments are exactly what stay.