431

Recently, I've been receiving a lot of my grandma's old things. Most of it has been her jewelry, but my aunt gave me one of the blankets that my grandma knitted herself. I remember, as a kid, always seeing those blankets lying either on the couch or my grandparents laps while they watched TV, back in the house we used to live in on Imperial Street. When Genie walked into my room and saw it sitting on my bed, the look on her face said one thing: Instant nostalgia.
We don't have to look very far to see a reminder of my grandmother. She's there in every woolen scarf, piece of clothing for Cookie and bowl of soup (She LOVED soup. It was so cute how happy she got when she drank soup). All I have to do is look outside my window into the backyard to see her garden. None of us could take care of it even if we tried, because it's way too complex. She built it out of random pieces of wood, and it took 2 feet of snow to bring it down one winter. And that's nothing compared to the greenhouse she tended to at our old place. She would always share the vegetables she grew amongst our three families, and we ate them no matter what, not only because it always tasted great, but because we knew how much love was poured into them. In every knitted hat, every pea and melon she planted, and every meal she cooked, there was love.
The girls and I didn't speak at my grandma's funeral, partially because we were blubbering messes, and partially because Greg said it all when he said she was the perfect grandmother. All of us cousins have lived with her at one point in our lives and got to experience how much she cares about us. I would come home from school, and she would always have something prepared for me to eat. Her and my grandpa would look after me when I was sick (which was a lot... And still is quite often...) and basically spoil me to death. She would always prepare the best food when the entire family was over. We'd have riceballs that we would try to blow bubbles with and that cake that she should have been world-famous for.
All of us have heard her stories. We've heard of the harsh childhood she lived, how she survived the Japanese invasion of her village and how she toiled over taking care of a household of 20 people, but as for me, I don't know that strong woman. I know her as my grandma, the kindhearted woman with bright eyes; the woman who I used to HAVE to kiss goodnight before I went to bed. She would always give us the best, always tease us and always feed us until we exploded. She never once told us that she loved us, because she didn't need to. She was love in action.
I'm grateful for her helping my parents to raise me, and I'm grateful that I got to spend 17 years of my life with her. Not that many people are as lucky as I am to have that amount of time with their grandparents. I'm grateful for every lunch she had waiting for me, every multicoloured hat and every dinner I ate with her, even if it was awkward and we had the same conversations every time (about school... and boys, HAHA.). Obviously, there's always a lot more that we could've done for her, but it's way past the time for regrets now. All there's left is to remember her for the amazing woman she was and pray that we'll see her again soon.
I miss you, 奶奶.