Last week, my paternal grandmother, the twins’ Ah-zho (great-grandmother) died. She was ninety-seven years old. I’m not sure how to explain this to the kids. They’ll ask about her when we go to my parents’ house. She lived with my parents since 1991, so the kids will probably go into her bedroom and ask why she isn’t there. I guess I’ll just tell them the truth, although their only context for death is when we tell them not to touch the dead earthworms and insects around our apartment building. “Dead” means “not moving”.
The kids have known their great-grandmother since they were born. She used to hold them and sing Japanese folk songs. Her voice was shrill and warbly, but the kids seemed to like it. She liked feeding them, especially Miranda, who would open her mouth to whatever strange Taiwanese snack my grandmother was offering her. When the kids were older and started feeding themselves, my grandmother would hover around them, picking up all the crumbs that would fall onto the table.
She didn’t use their names. She called Eleanor “big eyes”, and Miranda “good eater”. Despite not speaking the same language, the kids were close to their great-grandmother. They liked to give her hugs and show her their drawings. They never thought it was strange when she started using a walker, and later, a wheelchair. Recently, when we were at a restaurant, an old woman walked in with a walker. Miranda pointed and said, “Hey, Ah-zho has one of those.”
The two-month old twins on their great-grandmother’s bed.
Eleanor with Ah-zho on her first Christmas.
Ah-zho helping 15 month old Eleanor to walk.
Dinnertime with 18 month old Miranda.
Last Thanksgiving with two-year old Eleanor.
