Grandmother
They say out of the memories of someone, their voice is the one that goes first.
For me, it’s which one of her ankles was the bad one.
Grandma was a fighter. She was the eldest of ten siblings. She lived through both Dutch and Japanese occupation of Indonesia, and watched the charismatic Soekarno made his speech. She opened a sundries store in her Dutch-style house in Bandung to make a living, and behind that store counter, she became a blessing for her family and customers. I still remember it: every time my little family visited, I would ask for a soft candy from one of the candy jars. After she closed the store for good, she kept colorful hard candies in her pouch and gave several to each grandchild every time she met us. She and Grandpa lived with my family from then on.
She was a sharp-witted woman, but she had to sacrifice her own education for the sake of her younger siblings’. The bitterness that followed colored her interactions with her family. She was a basketball athlete in her youth, but I first knew her as my grandma who had a bad ankle — the result of an old untreated sprain — and bad asthma.
Thus, I wasn’t surprised when Dad called to tell me she passed away.
Dad’s voice trembled slightly when he called me. Silence filled my small room. My mind raced, imagination taking over as I pictured Mom and her two siblings crying beside their mother’s hospital bed, ventilator and monitoring systems switched off as the person they were supporting had already met her Prince of Peace.
I felt relief. Her suffering had worsened months prior.
—
The morning after she died was hot and sunny. I ordered a motorcycle taxi to go to the funeral home. The trip was a blur; along the way, my mind played the memories of the funeral for my Grandpa from Dad’s side six years before. I was younger then, and too proud to appreciate the loss of a loving grandparent. I wondered if I would feel the same this time.
In the funeral room, my younger sisters were sitting behind a table next to the entrance, acting as receptionists. Their eyes were red. Dad approached me and showed me where to store my things. He sniffled a few times. Mom was talking with several of Grandma’s relatives. I walked towards her and gave her a hug. She smiled, her eyes swollen, but she didn’t cry. She was done crying — for the moment.
I went to the table where they lit candles, and later, Grandma’s photograph. I prayed in front of the glowing little lights, thanking God for giving her peace. I muttered ‘Amen’ and approached Grandma’s mahogany casket. I looked inside, intent on studying her face one last time.
She laid asleep, peaceful expression betraying the pain she’d gone through for years before. Her skin was stretched in a poor attempt to smoothen her wrinkles, her lips bright red with lipstick. She looked better wrinkled and without makeup, I thought. They clothed her cold body in a dress, her dentures and her favorite blouse neatly put beside her head. The gloves they put on her were things she would never wear when she was alive.
I smiled. When I was sure nobody was paying attention, I bowed.
—
The memorial service that night was brought by family friends. A lot of people came; the room was filled to bursting. They made a slideshow, a scrapbook of sorts. A photo of her smiling made movies of vivid memories flood my mind. That time at fourth grade when I shouted at her for being so nosy, myself cooking and cleaning in the hopes that she’d be less acidic to me, and a more recent memory of her eyes lighting up when she saw me, “Grandma, I’m home” —
My tears burst, uninvited.
Also published at keytapsandcoffeebreaks.wordpress.com on September 28, 2017.
