My need to remember.

by Yunyu on March 7, 2008 · 0 comments

Dear Ah Ma (grandma)

This isn’t so much as a eulogy as my need to remember you.

I remember my childhood at the old house, where you had a rabid goose with an arse fetish that chased us around the compound, and chickens and rabbits and a huge swing and how you took care of all of us cousins as our parents went to work. It must have been tough, all of us being babies/toddlers, but you managed. Somehow nothing was impossible for you. You were formidable to me then, you still are.

We never felt left out with you, you loved and care for everyone of us. I remember waking up to the smells of your cooking and how you made sure that the family always gathered and remained close. I still smell your cooking coming from mom’s kitchen and in a huge way I remain comforted.

I remember your stories. Especially the ghost stories. I know you didn’t like us to hear them, but you told them anyways, always after heaps of insistence from us kids, but when you did tell them, they were delivered well, like everything else you did for us. It struck me that it didn’t matter where you told them, they were always eerie, always entertaining, even when told in a bustling shopping centre when we were waiting for mom to finish her shopping. I remember my brothers and I fearing the toilet and all general dark places for months after one of your tales.

You know, Ah Ma? I still tell your stories at gigs these days, and it brings a smile to me to see that your stories still scare even the bravest of my audiences. I think you would be proud.

It is at this moment that I can almost see that wry smile you wear when you don’t quite know what to do with us.

I remember your attempts to do my chinese homework for me. Most times you would sit beside us, an old dictionary in hand and a string of colourful curses bestowed on my well meaning Chinese teacher for setting impossible questions for us. You were always so patient, no matter how mischievous we got.

I remember the sleepovers. They were always fun, sometimes we would go for short car rides or just sit together watching telly while I asked you all too many questions about the times before and fairy tales, I did love your fairy tales. It didn’t matter how many times you told the story because you were a gifted storyteller. You were a great listener too, and always you had a consoling word for my less than enjoyable times in school. Somehow you always made my days a little better, you were great like that.

I remember sitting at the back of the car with you sharing an ice-cream or a packet of chips. You’d sneak a bite here and there like the rest of us and buy us more when mom wasn’t looking. To us, you were always the cool friend that we were all too lucky to have. Remember how we all ended up playing the ouija board together despite your misgivings, and the scary tales of the ouija you told to top it all off?

I remember the games we played and it seemed only yesterday, we stood in awe when you slammed us at a game of badminton when we were arrogant teenagers. (Full disclosure: you didn’t tell me you were a national sportswoman in Malaysia, basketball wasn’t it?)

I’m sorry I wasn’t around more when you got ill. Denial, general artistic poverty and lack of time took me away, and yes I always thought you would get well again. You always bounced back from the worst of things and I was sure you would this time, now I wish I got to see you more before you left even when you stopped telling the stories, even if to just hold your hand.

Your funeral brought all of us back together again, for awhile it was old times where my cousins and I were doing things together again. It’s never going to be the same though, and everyone is missing you in their own way, because bits of your stories continue to be told amidst the silent tears. In a way I guess, the storyteller in you lives, even if through us.

Last friday, I thought I heard you say goodbye while I was on stage, when I was telling a story that was one of yours. I’d like to think it was really you, leaving me with one more story to tell.

I’m proud to have known you Ah Ma. The honour was all mine. Go in peace now. I love you.