I used to tell my friends this, proudly too, but I lost the language, and it became an injustice to claim that title. My mother told me once that Chinese was my first language. I simply responded with “对,” and I convinced myself that it was because my Chinese was not good. You asked me many questions, but I never did the same for you. You often laughed at my Chinese, and teased me for only responding with “对.” “Yes.” “Correct.” It was a dismissive word. I lived for many years without ever thinking about how you were doing or what you were feeling - the barrier between us seemed too immense, a wall built from bricks of broken Mandarin, cement layers of faulty internet connection, and your strong Wúxī accent that not even the younger Chinese generation can understand anymore. Perhaps I would have treated you better, or at the very least, I would have remembered you. You never had a birth certificate, papers lost in the aftermath of revolution, and just the mere thought of age renders you silent and forlorn. You’re almost ninety now, although none of us are quite sure exactly how old you are. And perhaps now that’s why it is so difficult for me to accept your weakness. You gripped me firmly, and as a child, it reminded me of just how strong you were, despite your age. That’s how you’d often lead me, whether we were gardening together or taking a walk while you did morning exercises, you would always hurry me along, one hand wrapped tightly around my wrist. And though your hands are much rougher, crinkled like parchment paper, the gesture always sends my mind tumbling through our memories together, most of which we made when I was twelve years old, and when you lived with my family in America. It’s been so long since you were last in America, but every time someone grabs my wrist, I’m reminded of you.
I thought that of our memories too: thick and comforting, but they were clumped as well, honey riddled with dry chunks of misunderstanding and silence. They were rich and floral and tasted so much of home. You left only a few jars before you went back to Nanjing seven years ago, but I still remember their taste. Accessed 8 November 2013.Those memories I have of you are sweet, sweet like the osmanthus honey you used to make me, petals hand picked from your cobblestone patio back in China. China Market Publishing Corporation, 1987.
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