I feel the need to say something about this place, to be affirmed that my feelings about it truly happened. Being here is like walking through a fragmented dream I've had over and over again. The occasional unevenly laid grey tile of the sidewalk still trips me. The tiles are sometimes dusty, sometimes wet from water purposely poured on them in front of a doorway, maybe for cleaning purposes? Or cooling purposes? We weren't sure. But when they're freshly wet they smell like summer rains. The buses look different now and have side view mirrors that loom just over its front corners like antennae, making them appear alive like giant grasshoppers they've tamed to carry us on their backs. The lane dividers are still white metal with little arches and blur into a transparent screen between us and the bikers and motorbikers as we pick up speed. There are vehicles big and small, electric and gas, man and machine powered, covered and uncovered, old and new. It's as though they haven't yet decided which ones work best.
My grandmother's home still looks about the same. The little convenience store that sold popsicles at the front gate is now gone and the lady who sold steamed rolls and buns of various fillings in the courtyard has decreased her inventory. The market across the street where a lady with the Sichuan accent made hot and sour cellophane noodles has been replaced by a string of cell phone/clothing/and sock stores. But the clothes lines that criss cross my grandmother's front stoop are the same ones as before and the black peaks of dust caking the tops of the cabinets along the grand hallway have only grown in size.
We decide to sit by the empty fountain with the large rock sculpture for a little while. There are several other elderly neighbors of hers sitting out as well on shopping bag mats they place under their bottoms to protect them from the dirt on the benches. Their respective home aids, all somewhat still young women, stand in a cluster and chat amongst themselves. My grandmother comments on how the trees they planted around us years ago have grown tall now and how the landlord has removed all the sporting equipment from the yard except for the stone ping pong table that people still frequent. She comments that today is cooler than yesterday, only 34 degrees Celsius, and yesterday was 41. Her neighbor Mrs. Li who's in her 70's now remarks for the fifth time how much my sister has grown from the toddler who struggled to climb up the front stoop. I wonder if my grandmother would write about our conversation in her diary she keeps along with her close documentation of the temperature and weather for the day. She likes to keep track of things and still uses her abacus to calculate her budget every month.
Her daily routine involves massaging her assorted acupressure points from her head to her feet a calculated number of times according to a recently popular television show with accompanying manual written by a former barefoot doctor, now respectfully trained - perhaps a Chinese Dr. Oz. She shows me step by step her routine, ending with 300 downward strokes of her abdomen which she says has been shown to make fat people thin in addition to relieving all sorts of digestive problems. She shows me her few medications, one with "clopidogrel" in small letters and another all in Chinese. I rotate the box in my hand, making no attempt to guess at what the characters say. "You can't read it, right?," she chuckles. "This one's made of things that are still alive, like scorpions!"
My grandmother turns 90 on July 1st. My mom chimes out, "the traditional Chinese doctor says one can aim to live to 120 these days!" But my grandmother scoffs in disgust, "my heavens! Who would ever want to live that long? That would be awful!"
I don't remember being a child here anymore, but what does happen is that once in a while something feels so familiar I can't help but turn my head and stare for a while. We walked by Hou Hai lake the other day. It's still lined by a fence carved from white stone, the kind one sees frequently around here. Willow trees dangled over the fence and along the walkway, some tickling the water's surface. The houses surrounding the walkway were ones they kept from before, renovated, or rebuilt in the same fashion, with sloping roofs of grey tiles, brightly painted awnings, and bright red doors. Groups of older people including some old men in wife beaters clustered around playing cards. Some older men in speedos very comfortably jumped in and swam laps as my mother used to do here. It's become a popular tourist destination dotted with occasional white folks with fanny packs and large tour groups of Chinese people speaking in accents different from ours. There were even new old fashioned boats with lanterns that carry tourists and lovers across and probably cost a fortune to ride. Nonetheless I couldn't stop staring at the way the willow branches hung in the breeze.
I don't know when or whether I will see my grandmother again. The thought brings tears to my eyes. I'm not sure what I'm crying for, whether it's her, my childhood, or just the passing of time. I feel angry I ever left here. Yet I feel suffocated by the idea of staying. I feel regret for not knowing her more than in fragments separated by years. I feel guilty for avoiding visiting her more often. I feel happy to share with her a few meaningful moments. I feel proud to be able to sit with her without asking too much from either of us. I feel sad to be leaving her so soon.
