Even though at the time that this was written, the moment had only been about 2 weeks ago, it still all feels like a muddled blur. A memory hidden behind glass covered in condensation, with speckles and windows which allow insights to that memory. But then, it’s hard to forget the scent of latex gloves in the air, and the beeping of the heart rate monitor that would speed up and slow down in a disturbingly inconsistent pattern. Then, waiting for four hours, watching the fluctuating heartbeat and blood pressure, with this sinking feeling that would wash over momentarily. Never lasting more than mere minutes, and sometimes only even seconds, before fading away once again.

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It’s strange. To know when someone close to you has cancer, and is at the possible risk of death sooner rather than later. It’s even stranger, when the estimate was only for a few weeks, but the weeks turned into months, which turned into a year and a half. Until the end, the grandmother I knew was a fighter. 

 

So now, I find it hard to believe that there isn’t a lot of sadness that resides within me any more. Knowing for so long, waiting, and hoping that the day would never come. Eventually, all the hope turned into routine. Waiting for the possibility of the illness leaving, waiting for the chance of a miracle. Still, maybe somewhere deep in my subconscious, I already knew that it could only be something I imagined. Something that would be limited to my dreams. 

 

Then, she passed. In just a second, all her pain and suffering for the past few days was gone, and left with peace. She had always told us that she didn’t want to make a fuss, and never to make a big deal out of it, saying that she didn’t fear death, and she had lived for so long, got to meet her grandchild and even got to spend her last days with a dog that she adored. Knowing that she would have wanted to be at peace, not in pain, was enough for me.

 

My greatest wish now, would be to just have one more conversation with her. One more talk, to make sense of everything that is happening, everything that went by too fast. How someone could stay for a year longer than anyone could have expected, and leave just like that. But most of all, just to tell her everything that has happened since, and what I really hope will happen in the future.

 

People always tell us to appreciate everything, because we’ll only learn to miss it when it's gone. I find that saying cruel. I knew to appreciate every single moment left, because no one, not even doctors or herself, would know how many of these frail fragments would be left. And even after I knew to appreciate everything, you really can’t understand how you’ll miss it.

 

Just like a fading memory, you won’t know if you’ve lost a fragment of yourself, until you really do lose it. 

 

If I could just sit down one more time, across her from the mahjong table, as she would tell me over and over again how many points my hand was worth, and suddenly side track to how I should love and respect my parents. Maybe because I had heard it so many times before, but the accumulation of all those memories, and the things I used to put in the back of my mind, since I knew I’d hear it again over and over, are all that are left. 

 

I would hope to sit down, and just pretend nothing ever happened. Like it was just a normal day. If I could have one last conversation, I wouldn’t want it to be a sad one, nor would I want it to be something where I try to ask deep questions. I want my last memory to be something that feels so normal, and to remember not who I want to remember her as, but who she was until the very end. 

 

The way I want to remember her, is not ending her story with a full stop, but a with a comma, because the story never ended there. If she’s not here in real life, she’s still here in her spirit, in the stuffed animal she gave me on a whim, and the recipes that she left for us to cook 

 

Things that we overlook are never the major conversations, never the ones about relationships and life, and never the large milestones. But the few sentence chats that you thought you’d hear one more time. All the small details that you compile into an identity, one unified core, of a place, person, or time. 

 

Looking back into the past, all the way to the very first few memories, I find that everything I remember, are the large things that I could deem important. Things that I would think should be carried on and stored like treasures, with every other small detail slowly fading away. Perhaps in the same way, you can only vaguely remember your first birthday parties, the names of your friends, and the first time you ever moved houses. But can you remember the flavour of the cake you first were allowed to cut alongside your family, the way that your friend's teeth would gleam when they smiled, or what colour you wanted your first bedroom walls to be? 

 

The best way I think anyone could describe each and every minute you live, is fleeting. Once it is gone, it will never come back, and every single second that passes, will only pass once. Not only the most indispensable ones, but also every single detail. Even though people always warn you to remember to live life in the moment, it really is difficult to understand, until you really do miss something. 

 

I never found this truth to be sad. The passing of time is frightening, and the feeling of losing out even more so. But the passing of time is what makes it valuable. Knowing that if you don’t seize this minute of your time, it will never come back, is what gives it value. Even through videos, photos, or writing, there is no way to hold a frame of time in your hands, or have it back. 

 

Alas, perhaps all I’m trying to say is, there is not a fragment of time that doesn’t matter. Not a single experience, piece of writing, lesson that you take or train ride back home. Every last step of your time has its own meaning, a value that you may not be able to see now, but trust when I say that there will be a point in your life where you will find its value. 

 

From the very beginning to the end of her life, my grandma has been there for me. She had taught stretches of things, trying to show the horizon of things I could learn, and strive for in life. I’m sure she’d love to know that even after she's gone, she still teaches me new things, and is still able to remind me of things that I would’ve otherwise forgotten. 

 

I’ll remember to add that to the list of things I’d want to tell her.