In Memoriam

"I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.

But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise,
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold:
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more." - Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A.H.H.

Most days are uneventful, they come and then they end with nothing memorable happening. Then there are those uncommon days, where everything seems to happen in one fell swoop.

Today, I received an internship in New York City that I had been coveting for weeks now. But then, on the flip-side, my father called me while I was at Wegman's.

"Grandma died today. At 1 p.m."

Speechless. "Okay." I had said. I had expected the news when I heard his voice. But my stomach still fell. It's one thing to expect, but it's another thing for it to happen. Especially when it's something like this, so final and unambiguous.

My grandmother had been 97 years old. She may have been 98. I don't remember her birthday because we don't normally celebrate birthdays in Vietnamese culture. She was born in 1912.

What I do know is that she took care of me when I was in elementary school, had made me lunch when I'd come home, and had yelled at my cousin whenever he was mean to me.

She had traveled from North Vietnam to South Vietnam. My grandfather, who had died when I was in 7, and her sold rice noodles at the local market. He was 12 years older than her, and they had married when she was 13. They had 9 kids together. My mom was the second youngest. My grandmother had outlived two of her children.

She was tall and lean. Though she got shorter with age and I had never seen any photographs of her when she was younger, it's not hard to imagine a beautiful woman, with tall, proud cheekbones and an opinion.

Her life was hard, I know that from what she told me and from what my parents told me. When I had finally been old enough to understand her story, she no longer wanted to tell it. "It's too tiring to remember," she had said.

Then another time, there was a clue, "Giving birth is so easy for women today, you get to go to the hospitals and take time off of work. I had to work while I was pregnant. In the time that I was talking to you, I could have given birth at the same time." She had her opinions.

I wish I had known her more, that I had been more appreciative of her, that I had asked her more questions about her life when I could've.

But this is how I will remember my grandmother, not sick or feeble or in pain. But proud, tall, and beautiful. So this is a memoriam for my grandmother, who leaves behind seven children and dozens upon dozens of grandchildren and great grandchildren.

I will miss you and I hope where you are, it is beautiful.