In a cosy corner of a Thai restaurant, we were seated at a booth in the back during a lunch date a little later than when people usually eat. Between our conversations about the food, there were talks about memories of friendship and war, talks of work and leisure, and of growing old. I was in awe of the things they experienced and of the lives they led. I had so many questions but didn’t know where to start, and all I knew was that I wanted to know more.
She possessed a quiet and gentle demeanour with a kind and endearing smile. And he possessed a playful spirit that manifested in delightful conversations about endless things. They indulged us with small bites of nostalgic tales that carried a substantial weight and reminisced about the many things they experienced. I witnessed images in my head of what it could have looked like. Friends that were loved and lost crossed my mind, as did the peaceful lull of spending time together at home—oh, what a rich life they’ve lived.
I met her eyes during a story she told. They were filled with incredible nuance, but I only manage to glimpse a small afterimage of her life. They held so much depth and wisdom. I was afraid and averted my eyes, but I still wanted to know more. Then, a short silence encased us. Their eyes were directed at the table, but their thoughts focused on past memories that brought about a stifling nostalgia and the air became heavy.
She had smiled a weary smile yet, it espoused an overwhelming joy and gentleness that reached me from across the table, as if to tell me she was okay, but her eyes betrayed her. She was tired. And at that moment, I was rendered helpless and weak. I couldn’t look through the window into her soul again because it was too much for me to bear. I was paralysed and unable to do anything or offer any words.
My voice can’t reach them.
She appeared to grow wearier since the last I’d seen her and I had wondered whether that’s what it was like to be old, but there was a feeling I couldn’t shake that seemed familiar. And I was afraid. Looking back at it, my unease was like the time I began losing my father. He passed away nearly a decade ago, but the reminder of that time was crushing.
A little while before he passed, I left the house to celebrate my birthday in my youth and he told me to have fun. I looked at him, afraid to say anything, and left. The man I loved and knew was reduced to a shell of him. His face, once full, revealed his cheekbones outlining the ghastly figure of his skull, his breathing shallow and his skin pale. It was like looking at death in the face. I don’t remember much of the last week I spent with him other than the final hospital visits and just being in his presence, but I remember the fear and the shame.
Unknowingly, I had looked at Death’s face once more, and now I wish I had the courage back then to have explored her life a little more.
The air in that booth was so heavy that I almost forgot to breathe, and I think you felt it too. I wanted to hold your hand but we were sitting a little too far apart to do it discreetly, and to do it in front of your grandparents… well, I was too embarrassed to even entertain the idea. But I really wish I had. I wonder whether I’ll have the courage to grow old alongside you. The things we’ll experience and see—it all seems really scary, and I don’t know why.
I desperately hoped that I could spend more time with your nanna. For your birthday this year, I was going to be a little sneaky and spend time with nanna by myself to make all your favourite foods like Lemper, but I guess I can’t really do that anymore. It might be a while till we see her again, so I hope you don’t mind waiting.
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