Her Hand
“Always
hold your grandma’s hand, Sohee.”
Day
in and day out, this was what I constantly heard from my parents. Both of my
parents worked when I was little, so they always made sure that I stuck right
next to my grandma all the time while they were gone. My grandma was my
storyteller, chef, friend, and navigator of my life. She was always with me,
always did anything for me, and always loved me. Wherever there was grandma, there
was a way. At that age, I thought things would be always the same between her
and me.
As
she got older, her body weakened and after one surgery, her health deteriorated
significantly. After being released from the hospital, she would mostly lie
down at home, not being able to walk around. I was busy with school, and naturally,
we had less time to chat and do things together. Moreover, as I grew older, I
had more “important” things to do with my friends, than with my grandma. I
would even shy away from her, since her withered voice was no more like the
pleasant one I heard when I was little. I didn’t like the “old” grandma nor did
I need her for a friend, her guidance. I no longer needed her hand. Things now
had changed.
When
she was finally able to walk around, a time when the food I prepared for myself
was becoming more palatable to me than her food, the first place she paid visit to was my room.
“Sohee?”
I
didn’t reply, and just kept doing my thing with my back facing her. Soon I
felt her approaching and her soft hand on my shoulder.
“Sohee,
did you eat?”
I
was amazed how light and skeletal her hand was. I was afraid to turn my head.
Perhaps due to the shame from shunning her while she was in bed and selfishly
minding my own fun and exciting world, I couldn’t face her directly. As if she
had known what was going through my head, she slowly turned away and left my
room, quietly closing the door. She didn’t come back for a while, and all I
could hear was a short, intermittent clangor coming from the kitchen. And then
after a moment of silence, the door opened again.
“Sohee,
dinner’s ready.”
On
my way to the dining table, feeling as if the whole year of my selfishness and neglect
were flashing by me, I was filled with regret, self-reproach, and mostly disappointment
at myself. For the first time in one year, we sat together across the table. I
ate without a word. That night, I took my pillow to her room, and slept in her bosom.
Because
of her health, she was no longer able to do things on her own. It wasn’t she
who helped me get dressed, but it was I who helped her get dressed. It wasn’t
she who helped me out of my high chair, now it was I who helped her get off her
chair. I finally realized, it was now my turn to take her hand.
She
is now suffering from Alzheimer. She doesn’t recognize anybody but the only
name she does is Sohee. Whenever I come back home for vacation, she would make
every effort to get up and greet me at the front door and ask me where I had
been, while tightly holding my hand.
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