正文
It has been just over a year and half since my grandfather died. Actually, the man I knew as my grandfather had been gone for much longer than that, but his old, stiff grey-green body ceased to function the day after Valentines Day. I was on my way home from work, when I checked my voice mail and heard my father’s defeated voice tell me the news. I flied home the very next day. When I got home I sat in silence with my mother and asked the usual questions about funeral arrangements, how grandmother was holding up, is father sleeping , how it happened, and so forth. I agreed with my mother, who at the time looked very dignified in that big blue sofa, glasses resting on her chest. The last few months of watching him slowly fade from the inside out had taken its’ toll on all of them. Seeing him in the back room of his flat, his body surrounded by pale blue walls , confined to a hospital bed, yelling and swinging at demons only he could see, was how I imagined Nazi war criminals who had escaped to Argentina might spend their last days. Not to equate my grandfather’s life to the death and suffering of millions, but I learned as I got older that he was not always the kind, gentle, scholastic man of my baby and kid years.
From my first memories of him, he was nothing short of the perfect grandfather. He had loved me from the moment I was born and never once complained or scolded me when I made fun of his bald spot, no matter how much it may have annoyed him. But as I said before he was not always compassionate.
He was cruel to my father and uncle in their childhood. When they all moved from Beijing to Shanghai, my father and uncle were not allowed to bring any of their toys. According to my grandfather, those were useless objects. Men should always aim to become someone "useful", that men should always arm themselves with "real technics and skills" such as scientific knowledge otherwise they will be useless. My uncle was at one time a gifted pianist, my grandfather told him music could only be a hobby for a man and that he should make a "real career" to be a scientist or an electronic engineer. Unfortunately my uncle listened, and every time I see my uncle's face it breaks my heart a little more knowing that he could have given something so wonderful to this world, but didn’t because of my grandfathers’ own fears. My grandfathers’ bitterness got so bad over time, that for many years they spoke very little outside of holidays. Or if they did talk before Chinese New Year, there where such long gaps in the conversation that you could have looked up the term "uncomfortable silence" in the dictionary and seen a picture of my uncle and his father. For some of you, that might be the norm in your family, but for all 6 years that I have been away from China I talked to my parents every Saturday + Sunday and did all I could to be home around whatever vocations I could get. So the concept of communication with them being dictated by certain holidays was completely foreign to me.
A few months ago I went back to China to my grandmother’s house. As I was there grandmother asked me if I wanted to see some of the old volumes that grandfather had kept. She wanted to know if I might like some of his old books. As I was opening volums and volums of those old books, I found one of his old handkerchiefs. The man did not believe in paper napkins so he carried around handkerchiefs instead. It disgusted my mother to no end, but I always thought it was an old , amusing mannerism from the last century that had somehow managed to slip through into our present time like a pocket watch or a bowler top hat. I unfolded the handkerchief, stared though the almost transparent snow white linen fabric, smiled, then instantly broke down. I held my tears silent as to not alert my grandmother, she had been through enough I thought. I closed the bathroom door and cried for what I thought must have been hours. As I was gushing the kind of tears a movie star would fake to get an Academy Award , I realized that I was not crying for my grandfather, but I was crying for my father. Yes I loved my grandfather, on his death bed I had thanked him for making the man my father had turned out to be, but I was crying because for the first time in quite some time I was aware of the undeniable truth of my own father’s mortality. He would die someday, as would my mother; and I was I strong enough to handle that fact? I could not imagine how it tore at his heart to watch my grandfather slowly slip deeper and deeper into a place from which he would never return. I did not want to, but I couldn’t help picturing my scenario being played out in the room where I now type this passage. The computer where I type is gone, as is the ironing board, the other big blue spfa, the file cabinets, and all the objects that make this room what it is are gone. They are replaced by the same pale blue walls, the same hospital bed, and same sense of foreboding. I sit by his bedside hoping that karma's wrath had gently passed us by. I imagined as karma gently sat at his bedside, it gave a nudge to death and said, " be gentle with this one, he is special."
I imagined my father telling me how much he loved me and how proud he was of the young woman I had become. I told him that I was scared and that I wasn’t going to be able to go on without him. I hadn’t even painted that landscape he wanted, he couldn’t die until I finished it. I pictured him laughing , the crow’s feet forming under his crazy, mad scientist eyebrows, and telling me things will be ok. He told me that I was stronger than I knew and that it was just part of the life cycle. Strong? Me? You must be close to death father, because you are talking crazy! I am not strong you crazy old man! I am always on the brink of losing everything. Most times it takes every muscle, every joint, and every brain cell I have fired to its fullest capacity for me to simply walk down the street and not collapse under the weight of self-induced demons. But as he gently held my hand, I did not tell him what I was thinking. I kept it together and smiled at his gentle intelligent large eyes the way he had smiled at my eyes when I was born. By holding it all together, was I proving him right? Was I stronger than I knew? Or was I just packing away my insecurities like one does Christmas decorations? I imagined I didn’t care at that moment and would instead focus on making his last few moments with me gentle ones. He squeezed my hand again and told me that he loved me and I did the same. Then I imagined him taking his last breath , his giant hand slowly loosened its’ grip and then slowly descended to the mattress. And there I was, cold and isolated, having just watched one of the greatest men to have ever lived leave me alone in a world that at any moment would eat me alive.
But as the tears began to lessen, I realized that although my imagined scenario might very well come true someday, one aspect was false. If one has loved and been loved then one is never really alone. Whenever I heard a preacher or some well to do religious person declare that the soul lives forever, or the person is kept alive by the memories of the ones who loved, I always thought, " Easy for you to say A-hole., it’s not your dead relative in the coffin." Advice to me always seems less valid coming from someone who is in a greater vantage point than the person who needs it. What if this is it? What if there is no afterlife? No Heaven?No hell? No Paradise? No Nirvana? What if this is the only shot we have? Why do the good always die young? Why is there so much suffering in the world and yet there is so much wealth? Why hasn’t anyone bitch slapped Paris Hilton yet? There are so many questions that need to be answered, but I digress from my point.
I realized at my grandfather’s funeral when my dad spoke that his soul does live forever.
The preachers and clergymen I had always heard spew out the same speech were right.
We are never truly dead if we have lived our lives the way God intended us to and people remember the love we gave to the world. Although my Father will die someday, I will not be alone or scared because I carry on the love he gave to me and I can live my life knowing that I regarded him as one of my heroes.
As I exited my grandmother’s bathroom, I had a huge sense of relief settle over me, like the feeling you get after a long run. I met my grandmother in her living room, She asked if I found anything I liked. " I found this, " I said.
She turned to see the handkerchief , smiled that old grandmother smile and said, " He must be smiling somewhere."
I agreed. At that moment, I felt a warm breeze pass by and knew that my grandmother was right. I hugged her gently, her delicate shoulder felt so tiny yet so warm in my arms......
From my first memories of him, he was nothing short of the perfect grandfather. He had loved me from the moment I was born and never once complained or scolded me when I made fun of his bald spot, no matter how much it may have annoyed him. But as I said before he was not always compassionate.
He was cruel to my father and uncle in their childhood. When they all moved from Beijing to Shanghai, my father and uncle were not allowed to bring any of their toys. According to my grandfather, those were useless objects. Men should always aim to become someone "useful", that men should always arm themselves with "real technics and skills" such as scientific knowledge otherwise they will be useless. My uncle was at one time a gifted pianist, my grandfather told him music could only be a hobby for a man and that he should make a "real career" to be a scientist or an electronic engineer. Unfortunately my uncle listened, and every time I see my uncle's face it breaks my heart a little more knowing that he could have given something so wonderful to this world, but didn’t because of my grandfathers’ own fears. My grandfathers’ bitterness got so bad over time, that for many years they spoke very little outside of holidays. Or if they did talk before Chinese New Year, there where such long gaps in the conversation that you could have looked up the term "uncomfortable silence" in the dictionary and seen a picture of my uncle and his father. For some of you, that might be the norm in your family, but for all 6 years that I have been away from China I talked to my parents every Saturday + Sunday and did all I could to be home around whatever vocations I could get. So the concept of communication with them being dictated by certain holidays was completely foreign to me.
A few months ago I went back to China to my grandmother’s house. As I was there grandmother asked me if I wanted to see some of the old volumes that grandfather had kept. She wanted to know if I might like some of his old books. As I was opening volums and volums of those old books, I found one of his old handkerchiefs. The man did not believe in paper napkins so he carried around handkerchiefs instead. It disgusted my mother to no end, but I always thought it was an old , amusing mannerism from the last century that had somehow managed to slip through into our present time like a pocket watch or a bowler top hat. I unfolded the handkerchief, stared though the almost transparent snow white linen fabric, smiled, then instantly broke down. I held my tears silent as to not alert my grandmother, she had been through enough I thought. I closed the bathroom door and cried for what I thought must have been hours. As I was gushing the kind of tears a movie star would fake to get an Academy Award , I realized that I was not crying for my grandfather, but I was crying for my father. Yes I loved my grandfather, on his death bed I had thanked him for making the man my father had turned out to be, but I was crying because for the first time in quite some time I was aware of the undeniable truth of my own father’s mortality. He would die someday, as would my mother; and I was I strong enough to handle that fact? I could not imagine how it tore at his heart to watch my grandfather slowly slip deeper and deeper into a place from which he would never return. I did not want to, but I couldn’t help picturing my scenario being played out in the room where I now type this passage. The computer where I type is gone, as is the ironing board, the other big blue spfa, the file cabinets, and all the objects that make this room what it is are gone. They are replaced by the same pale blue walls, the same hospital bed, and same sense of foreboding. I sit by his bedside hoping that karma's wrath had gently passed us by. I imagined as karma gently sat at his bedside, it gave a nudge to death and said, " be gentle with this one, he is special."
I imagined my father telling me how much he loved me and how proud he was of the young woman I had become. I told him that I was scared and that I wasn’t going to be able to go on without him. I hadn’t even painted that landscape he wanted, he couldn’t die until I finished it. I pictured him laughing , the crow’s feet forming under his crazy, mad scientist eyebrows, and telling me things will be ok. He told me that I was stronger than I knew and that it was just part of the life cycle. Strong? Me? You must be close to death father, because you are talking crazy! I am not strong you crazy old man! I am always on the brink of losing everything. Most times it takes every muscle, every joint, and every brain cell I have fired to its fullest capacity for me to simply walk down the street and not collapse under the weight of self-induced demons. But as he gently held my hand, I did not tell him what I was thinking. I kept it together and smiled at his gentle intelligent large eyes the way he had smiled at my eyes when I was born. By holding it all together, was I proving him right? Was I stronger than I knew? Or was I just packing away my insecurities like one does Christmas decorations? I imagined I didn’t care at that moment and would instead focus on making his last few moments with me gentle ones. He squeezed my hand again and told me that he loved me and I did the same. Then I imagined him taking his last breath , his giant hand slowly loosened its’ grip and then slowly descended to the mattress. And there I was, cold and isolated, having just watched one of the greatest men to have ever lived leave me alone in a world that at any moment would eat me alive.
But as the tears began to lessen, I realized that although my imagined scenario might very well come true someday, one aspect was false. If one has loved and been loved then one is never really alone. Whenever I heard a preacher or some well to do religious person declare that the soul lives forever, or the person is kept alive by the memories of the ones who loved, I always thought, " Easy for you to say A-hole., it’s not your dead relative in the coffin." Advice to me always seems less valid coming from someone who is in a greater vantage point than the person who needs it. What if this is it? What if there is no afterlife? No Heaven?No hell? No Paradise? No Nirvana? What if this is the only shot we have? Why do the good always die young? Why is there so much suffering in the world and yet there is so much wealth? Why hasn’t anyone bitch slapped Paris Hilton yet? There are so many questions that need to be answered, but I digress from my point.
I realized at my grandfather’s funeral when my dad spoke that his soul does live forever.
The preachers and clergymen I had always heard spew out the same speech were right.
We are never truly dead if we have lived our lives the way God intended us to and people remember the love we gave to the world. Although my Father will die someday, I will not be alone or scared because I carry on the love he gave to me and I can live my life knowing that I regarded him as one of my heroes.
As I exited my grandmother’s bathroom, I had a huge sense of relief settle over me, like the feeling you get after a long run. I met my grandmother in her living room, She asked if I found anything I liked. " I found this, " I said.
She turned to see the handkerchief , smiled that old grandmother smile and said, " He must be smiling somewhere."
I agreed. At that moment, I felt a warm breeze pass by and knew that my grandmother was right. I hugged her gently, her delicate shoulder felt so tiny yet so warm in my arms......
Give you a song:
Father and Daughter
If you leap awake
In the mirror of a bad dream
And for a fraction of a second
You cant remember where you are
Just open your window
And follow your memory upstream
To the meadow in the mountain
Where we counted every falling star
I believe the light that shines on you
Will shine on you forever
And though I cant guarantee
Theres nothing scary hiding under your bed
I'm gonna stand guard
Like a postcard of a Golden Retriever
And never leave till I leave you
With a sweet dream in your head
Im gonna watch you shine
Gonna watch you grow
Gonna paint a sign
So youll always know
As long as one and one is two
There could never be a father
Who loved his daughter more than I love you
Trust your intuition
Its just like going fishing
You cast your line
And hope you get a bite
But you dont need to waste your time
Worrying about the market place
Try to help the human race
Struggling to survive its harshest night
Im gonna watch you shine
Gonna watch you grow
Gonna paint a sign
So youll always know
As long as one and one is two
There could never be a father
Who loved his daughter more than I love you
Im gonna watch you shine
Gonna watch you grow
Gonna paint a sign
So youll always know
As long as one and one is two
There could never be a father
Who loved his daughter more than I love you
mulan, don't make yourself too blue to enjoy the splendid.
We ourselves are part of this huge fancinating Nature and our experience is also part of the Nature.