Chapter 9
The bond between grandma and I
Grandma, at sixty, remained in her old home. Her yard was a sea of Chinese roses in shades of pink and white, while red lanterns, gifts from her students, adorned the entrance. These lanterns swayed gently in the breeze, casting soft shadows on the stone steps. As a child, I would eagerly visit her every weekend. She would be seated on a rattan chair under the eaves, her white hair loosely tied in a bun, waiting for me with a bowl of candied hawthorns. The sweet and tangy flavor mingled with the fragrance of roses, creating the most vivid memory of my childhood.
My first lesson about the world came from Grandma. When I was three, she used a thin branch to draw "a, o, e"?on the earthen floor. I grew restless and wanted to chase butterflies. Noticing this, she sketched a delicate rabbit beside the letters and said, "If you learn these, I'll?show you how to draw a carrot for the rabbit." I?sat back down, my eyes glued to the branch in her hand. When I finally pronounced "a" correctly, she clapped and popped a candied hawthorn into my mouth. The sweetness spread across my tongue, and I realized that learning could be such a joyful experience. Rather than complex knowledge, she instilled in me a love for life's simple pleasures.
Grandma was my steadfast support as I grew up. In elementary?school, I failed a math test. I hid in my room, crying, and crumpled the test paper into a ball. Grandma came in, gently unfolded the paper, and wiped my tears with the back of her hand. She retrieved a stack of yellowed certificates from a drawer, awards she had received for being the top teacher each year. "I made mistakes too when I was young,"?she said, pointing to a faint red cross on an old lesson plan. "What matters is getting back up after a fall."?She sat with me at the table, using a corn cob to explain the questions I got wrong. The oil lamp flickered, and her shadow on the wall was warm and steady. We worked until midnight, and the scent of her boiled osmanthus tea lingered in the air.
Grandma also shaped my understanding of kindness. One afternoon, a stray cat wandered into the yard, thin and dirty. I wanted to chase it away, but Grandma stopped me. She went inside and returned with a bowl of rice porridge, placing it gently at the cat's feet."All living things need to be cherished,"?she said, softly stroking the cat's back.?I watched the cat eat happily, and Grandma's eyes were as gentle as the afternoon sun.That paved the way for when my classmate couldn't keep up with the lessons, I volunteered to help him review, just like Grandma did for her students. I realized that kindness is not a grand gesture but a small, consistent choice.
On the day I received my university admission letter, my father and I hurried to Grandma's house to share the news. Her hands trembled slightly as she held the letter, her eyes shimmering with tears. "Study hard and become a useful person," she said, patting my hand repeatedly. Grandma ended up her journey of schooling in high school, so she held high expectations for me to attend college. Seeing my success, she also felt genuinely proud of me. As Iwas leaving in my dad's car, she stood by the roadside, waving at me. Her figure grew smaller and smaller as the car drove?away, yet she continued waving until she vanished from view. That moment is etched in my memory, a constant reminder of her hopes for me.
Now that I'm in college, I still visit Grandma every month. She sits in her rattan chair as always, though her back is a bit more bent. We talk about my school?and reminisce about the past, about how she walked miles to teach and saved money to help underprivileged students.Through her words and stories I got to know her past, her passion, her sorrow, her ideals... I pictured a full vision for my grandma when she was young.
