Grandma
My wife Dung's Grandma died at the age of 90. She died peacefully, but her spirit lives on.
The last time Dung and I visited her was two years before her death. She was already weakened by old age. Her hearing, her sight had all but gone. The cancer had eaten more than half of her lungs, and she was no more than just skin and bones.
When we were there, this frail old woman was so pleased to see us. She woke up early each day working in the kitchen, preparing meals, smiling and telling stories. She cooked Dung's favorite dishes, and made Dung write down the recipes. In the evenings, she sat by my wife holding her hands as she recited old events. She gave my wife all her time and attention that she could. This shy and private woman asked us to take many photographs of her on this trip.
Before we left for the airport, she embraced Dung for a long time, tears swelled in her eyes as she made me promise to take care of Dung and the kids. Dung cried all the way home.
We arrived to pay our respect early in the morning at the funeral home. The small private room where the family congregated was full of flower arrangements. Her small body was laid solemnly in the oversized coffin. Lonely, serene and silent. The gentle music was barely heard over the small talks of family members.
By late morning, a small crowd of visitors gathered; and by noon they moved her into the largest chapel of the place to accommodate the gathering. Former President Nguyễn Văn Thiệu showed up to pay respect to his aunt. At five o'clock in the late afternoon, they buried her. The misty Northern California rain could not disperse a crowd of more than five hundred people until late into the evening.
God has given Dung's Grandma a gift. Her gift was a gift of self, and she had given it freely to persons of her contact. She was the glue that binds the family together. She was the reason that we had gotten to know parents, uncles, aunts, children, nieces and nephews. She was the life of generations. In dying, she lived on in each one of us.
Vui
