Late last year, my paternal grandmother passed away. She was an incredible woman, flaws and all. I wrote a short eulogy for her funeral.
One of my earliest memories of my grandmother was when I was about five years old. My parents had left me at her house for a few hours, and upon returning, found me hiding behind the sofa. They asked me what was wrong, and I told them I didn’t want to eat anymore. Ngin Ngin had fed me so much that I had finally had enough and had to remove myself from the situation.
That was how Ngin Ngin was. Whenever I called or visited, she always greeted me by asking me if I wanted food. “Hoo mm oo” was her favorite phrase with me. “Do you want this?” And she would wave some delicious home cooked food in front of my face. One time I told her how much I loved her fu jook soup, and that ended up being the only soup she’d make for me for the next fifteen years.
I don’t really speak Toisan, her dialect, and she didn’t really speak English, but we still managed to communicate. I would sit with her for hours while she painstakingly told her stories to me. About traveling to Hong Kong and the US, about her village in China and the famine she suffered though, about her struggles to raise her children by herself. She always emphasized that despite her struggles, God had blessed her with everything in her life.
She always reminded me how much she loved me and would giggle whenever I hugged her or kissed her cheek. Even at her last, she was smiling as I held her hand and told her I loved her.
I love you, Ngin Ngin, and I look forward to one day seeing you again in Heaven.