Tuesday, January 11, 2011

There are two things I must write tonight. The first is the splendor of paragraphs you see before you, so behold, I guess. The second is something I’ve been putting off again and again today: a meaningful line or two in a condolences card bound for Taiwan, a paper proxy equipped with a check to help defray funeral expenses. My grandfather passed away last week, and since then I’ve been sorting out my own jumble of thoughts, trying to parse the significance of the event and my reactions to it.

I found out on Friday, shortly after stepping into the office–miraculously–at 8 AM on the dot. It was a random Gmail login. A single unread e-mail in my inbox entitled “Grandpa,” and frankly I knew what it contained before I even clicked. It was a brief e-mail, terse and polite, the tone I’ve come to expect from my own dad. 45 words across two lines, dense with facts: grandpa had died at a ripe old age of 94, and grandma’s in the hospital. I also gathered from my father’s reference to “afternoon” that he is still overseas.

I read the e-mail twice, then attempted to digest the news. I asked my boss for some time off for funeral arrangements, and that was that. “Bought the farm” was the phrase I used, and I remember thinking how there were so many better ways I could’ve expressed myself. Spoke about it to nobody else. My aim wasn’t to curry sympathy, after all, but simply to set aside some time. A few hours later, as I was looking into how to expedite passport renewal, I received another e-mail from my old man. There wasn’t any need to hop on a plane, he said. A card would be enough. You may think this sounds tacky and inappropriate, but let me assure you we’re more than a few standard deviations from the norm here. I knew to take a literal reading of his e-mail, because if I were to show up anyway as a surprise, it wouldn’t be pretty.

And honestly? I’m relieved. Part of the reason is that I’m not really tight with that branch of the family tree. Estranged would be a far more accurate term. I wasn’t close with my grandfather, and the sad fact of the matter is I’m at a loss to regale you with any extended narratives about grandfatherly interactions. No fishing, no catch, no learning how to ride a bike. Instead, I have these snapshots in my mind. How he loved mahjong. Tried some corned beef hash once, then proceeded to vigorously spit it out. I remember setting off firecrackers with him. How he agonized over death. He had a tendency to sleep in a darkened room for the majority of the day, only to reemerge for meals or a late-night mahjong gathering. I remember when he was visiting the States once: it was a rainy grade school afternoon, and after tracking some mud into the house, I took a few Bounties to my mess to his considerable approbation.

We weren’t close, but familial bonds are primordial. They run deep. And while I’ve yet to shed any tears, a great sadness weighs upon me. I’ve found myself staring off into nowhere these past few days, wondering how I could’ve acted differently, whether I will act differently in the future, and how I should recalibrate my notions of what’s truly important. But most of all, it’s the finality of it. He’s gone. If I want to know him better at this point, I have but memory and hearsay left. For that, I am supremely apologetic.