Dear Grandpa

It has been seven years to the day that you left us. I was a senior in high school, sitting in the quad with my friends during lunch. Older sister, who had short day, was walking toward me. Something was wrong. She shouldn't be at school right now. "Grandpa died! Hurry, come with me," she said. I was in utter disbelief, shock. You died?! It took me awhile to register what had happened. By the time I was in the car, I was in tears. We went to pick up Younger Sister from middle school and headed to Garden Grove Hospital, where the ambulance had taken you. As we approached the emergency door, Youngest Aunt was at the stairs, crying hard, barely able to get the words out, "Grandpa died!" We all rushed into the waiting room, anxious to know what had happened, how you had died.

Uncle walked out of the room where your body was and was silent, wiping away his wet face. We all walked in, trying to contain ourselves, but I saw Dad who was standing by your side, looking down at you, speechless. There you were, lying on the stretcher with a white sheet over your cold body, with just your face exposed, looking like you do when you sleep. Oldest Aunt was stroking your forehead and hair. People were watching over Grandma to make sure she was okay. A monk was in the corner praying for you. There were too many people in the room so we all quickly left.

Eventually we went back to the apartment where you lived with Youngest Aunt and her three kids. It was strange to not see your smiling face when I walked in the door. I imagined your last moments there: you were having lunch with Grandma, you finished your food, you said you felt weak, and then you fell to the floor. You died of a heart attack.

While everyone was in the living room, I went to the kids' bedroom and hid my face in the blankets. I cried hard. I couldn't stop crying. I understood that it was your time to go, but it was just too soon. Just the day before, I was driving you to my house in my beat-up Geo Prism and made some crazy turns. I scared the shit out of you and you said that you'd never drive with me again. And you kept your promise.

I dreamed of you every night for the next three months. Sometimes I would cry in my dreams and I would wake up crying. My dreams felt so real, as if you were really with me, hugging me and talking to me. Then I stopped seeing you. Perhaps it was because I let go of you and accepted that you were gone.

I will always remember and cherish the times that I spent with you. You and Grandma took care of my sisters, me and my cousins while our parents were at work. When my parents yelled at me, you were there for me to run to. I miss the days you would pack all six of us in your tiny Honda Civic and take us to Huntington Beach. Or when we went camping and my sister and I would share the bed with you and Grandma. I loved picking your white hairs for you--you called them your "itchy hairs." I still haven't figured out how you didn't stink when you didn't shower everyday--you hated showering. Remember our cool handshake that all of us, your grandkids, would do with you? Even though your toenails were crusty, I would cut them for you and you would always tell me to cut them even shorter! You were the voice of reason and were always so calm when everyone else was loud and irrational. You taught me how to be simple and easy going, to not inconvenience anyone.

Thank you for your love and giving meaning to my life.

I miss you so much, my Ong Noi.