Dear Grandpa,

I do not remember you
standing by the bed,
while I slipped into this world.
Not quietly, but kicking and screaming.

I cannot recall your voice,
Saying, this is a cute kid.

I do not remember you,
Holding me by your breast.
Humming sweet, warm lullabies,
Holding my tiny foot in your hands.

But I do know the feeling
Of your arms encircled around me,
When I felt faint on the way home from school.
Then I was 8.

I have never really seen you
Heave sacks of rice, concrete,
back then in Communist China.
But from the tongue and lips of my mother,
I can imagine.

I can imagine you,
Coming home from work
In grimy overalls and boots caked in mud.
Toiling to feed a family.
Back then you were 30.

I can easily envision all that
When you easily picked up my schoolbag
The schoolbag, its “heaviness”
I all too often bemoaned.
You were 67 then, yet so strong.

Now, only now after you have gone,
Moved back to that Middle Country
Do I realize,
Behind that tender and wise smile,
Behind the strong shoulders,
Lies a history of pain and joy, of love and loss
A history, its burden you so carry so effortlessly.

Only now do I conceive
How much I truly miss you
Your absence creates a certain
Excavated hollowness, a gaping black hole
Tearing apart the fabric of my world
It sucks away that warmth and radiance
Your presence so often provided
I do now appreciate
The transience of your love.