Grandpa’s gone.
October 19th, 2026. 7:10 AM. Vietnamese time.
Upstairs, my mom woke up to dress for her shift. Downstairs, my grandpa puked out everything. Blood was everywhere. Just like that, he left.
Mom called me to break the news. She cried, but she still had to smile at the customers, because that is her job. She got used to it.
But of course, this time was different.
I was just about to call my grandpa, but I missed seeing him one last time. Late-stage liver cancer: just like that, his suffering ended in a puddle of blood.
The very next day, the only thing I could do was stare at his coffin through a video call. My whole family was there on their knees, mourning. Everything was white: the clothes, the bouquets of flowers, except for him. He was covered in a golden yellow. The last time I saw him was through a picture of his funeral.
On the 21st, my medication came: estrogen for injection, and spironolactone for blocking.
I remember my grandpa used to take the insulin out of his fridge and inject it into his fat layer. Now it’s me, injecting estrogen into my fat layer. The syringe never fades away. The only thing I could think of when I put it in was the last vivid memory of my grandpa. He’s still there; unfortunately for me, he is now just a remnant of the thing that destroyed him. Yet, we both know that this needle is the only thing saving both of us from death.
The following day, my brother showed me what was happening over there. He was there, my aunties and uncles were there, and even our father’s son was there too. But there was one outfit under the stash meant for me, the only one that was labeled “the eldest paternal grandchild.”
I called my grandma. She just gave a brief response to me and handed the phone back to another auntie of mine. It’s no surprise she was the one hit the hardest; it was her partner’s death, after all. I haven’t been able to call her since. Even if my family tells me to, she never picks up. She was the one who gave me and my mom the hardest time, but she was also the one who woke up early to make food for us. She complains, but she also helps. I don’t know if I can ever rekindle my relationship with her, but at least I can have enough empathy for her loss.
October 24th, he was buried. He was buried at the exact same time as my birthday party.
My mom tried to smile at the people around her, acting as if she was okay. I was smiling at everyone around me, acting as if I was okay. It is genetic, one may say.
I had tried to call him a lot more during the last few weeks of his life, but the feelings of regret, guilt, and remorse were still inevitable.
Within a single week, we gained a new age, and we lost him. It’s just that I can’t see him anymore.
He really loved his grandkids. That’s who he will always be. I still wish I could have said that to him sooner.
“子供の頃見上げた
夜の空に思った
あの一つ一つに誰かの願いがこもっている
その一つがあなたで
すぐ隣で笑ってて
ねえ時を止めれるなら
この1秒を切り取って
…
もう私も大人ね
変わったこと、変わらないこと
止まらない時計の針が
冷たく胸を刻んだ
でもあなたに出会って
日々の眩しさを知って
まだ少しこわいけど
今踏み出せる気がしてるよ星降る夜に
会いたいが積もるばかり
あなたの名前を祈るようにそっと
何度も
抱きしめているよ
高鳴る鼓動が
体を追い越していく
私の名前を特別にしてくれたの
今はただ
抱きしめてたいの
いつも想ってるよ.”
(“As a child, I used to look up
And think that the night sky
Holds someone’s wish in each and every (star)
One of them is yours
Smiling right next to me
Hey, if you could stop time
Do cut out this one second
…
I’m already a grown-up, am I not?
Something has changed, something has not
The unstoppable clock hands
Carved coldly into my heart
But, when I met you
And learnt about the glare of your days
Though I’m still a little scared
I feel like I can now make a step forwardOn a starry night
– YU-KA, 星月夜 (“The Starry Night”). 2023.
I want to meet you, but it just keeps piling up
I seem to pronounce your name in a prayer
And embrace you
Many times, yeah
A racing pulse
Filled up my body
You made my name special
I’m constantly thinking
How much I simply
Want to embrace you now.”)
