摺紙鶴: Paper Cranes

I lie in bed, watching my grandmother’s hands weave around each other, pulling invisible threads through transparent needles, fabricating a tantalizing tale. She always used her hands to illustrate a story. My eyes, fatigued yet somehow attentive, follow her rapid movements with zeal. Every time, before the curtains close upon my pupils, I want her to tell me a story: my favorite one. I want her voice to caress me gently as I drift off into my dreams; tonight is no different.

“Ai-yah, again? Are you not tired of this story?” she chuckles, pinching my cheek. I squirm and shake my head vigorously.

“Alright, then Lao-Lao (grandma) won’t be tired of telling it to you again,” she sighs.

The mother told her son to buy some eggs from the grocery store; of course, he refused. He didn’t want to walk all the way just for two cartons of eggs! But, already anticipating this reaction, the mother promised her son that he could buy whatever candy he wanted from the nearby confectionary shop. His face lit up like a lightbulb!

“Lightbulb!” I exclaim, giggling at the way the word made my lips fold and spring back again, popping like a bubble.

“Shush, or Lao-Lao won’t continue the story” she whispers. Her words, wisps of air leaving her mouth, float idly into my ears. I immediately settle and draw the covers higher, relishing in the warmth they provide. She proceeds.

The boy skipped to the grocery store in glee, leaping high in the air like a mountain goat over a crevice. He picked out the best looking egg cartons, paid, and made his way to the confectionary shop. Standing outside the store, he realized there was just one problem: his hands were full! He couldn’t just walk into the store with two egg cartons because that would leave him unable to grab the candy he wanted. But, he also couldn’t leave the eggs out in the open since someone could steal them.

So, the boy found a tall bush, taller than he was, and hid the cartons under it. Satisfied with such a smart decision, he waltzed into the store, snatching the biggest lollipop he could find; the neon-colored swirls made his eyes spin round and round.

Lao-Lao draws a wide circle in the air with her finger, spiraling to the center where she taps me on the nose. I give a drowsy smile. Her voice soothes the patch-work of muscles behind my eyelids, unraveling their tightly-sewn seams. She continues.

The boy left the store joyfully licking his lollipop. With every step he took on the walk home, he would lick the lollipop once; only morsels of it remained as he drew close to home. But when he reached the front door, he realized that he had forgotten the egg cartons underneath the tall bush!

I exhaled sharply out of my nose, my mouth far too tired to laugh. Lao-Lao places her cool hand upon my forehead, gently reminding my vivid imagination that it’s time to rest, time to sleep. As I drift off into my dreams, she reminds me:

“Memory is like a caged bird, it will sing and chirp for you every day, but once you open the door, it will quickly fly away.”

***

A crisp hundred dollar note, neatly folded into a small strip, rests in my palm. My grandmother’s hand retracts, jade bracelets sliding up and down her cadaverous wrist - an abacus counting down her years. She looks at me fondly, pinching my cheek; I wince, not in pain like before, but in irritation. I look to my mother, hoping for some indication that we would finally be leaving Lao-Lao’s home. Instead, I receive a firm glare, one telling me to just take the money with gratitude.

“Lao-Lao is giving you some pocket money. You should go buy some tasty candy!” she whispers. Her formerly hazelnut-brown eyes are now constricted by desolate graphite rings, markers of her years that have passed. I struggle to find those warm and welcoming eyes that used to stare down at me every night.

“Lao-Lao, I told you already, I don’t need the money. Besides, I’ve stopped eating candy,” I complain.

“Ai-yah, you’ve grown up too fast. You used to be so pudgy and cute, now your face is too sharp.” She laughs as she waves her hand in the air, shielding herself from my grumbling.

She is unwilling to see her grandson as anything but her siu-bee-bee (little baby). She reaches out to pinch my cheek once more. I grab her hand and gently lower it, an archer striking down the graceful crane from the sky.

“Lao-Lao, please stop touching my face,” I finally say, unsure of how she would react.

Her eyes somehow lose their color, fading further into the void, into senility, blending with the drab surroundings of her humble abode. Yet she still smiles, hoping that her curated joy will distract from the pain in her eyes.

“Look at you, almost a man, make sure to find a suitable wife,” she remarks, patting my hand, “remember to come visit more often!”

“Yes, of course,” my mother responds as we walk down the hallway.

As we reach the elevator, I look back once more, seeing Lao-Lao in the doorway waving us goodbye. But once the doors closed, I had forgotten her. A piece of fabric in the patchwork of my life began to fray — a hole was opening.

***

The elevator doors open, the young man and his mother step out. Geriatrics shuffle across the room or sit at tables, staring blankly into space. The air is thick and heavy, an invisible weight upon everyone’s chest. A nurse, dark bags weighing down her eyes, ambles towards the young man and his mother.

“Who are you here for?” she mumbles.

“We’re visiting his grandmother,” the young man’s mother states as she hands over their identification cards. The nurse jots down their names and information, her handwriting a mess of incoherent lines and squiggles — a heartbeat monitor that suddenly flatlines at the end of the sentence.

“Come follow me,” she sighs, “she hasn’t been responding well to visitors, you know.”

“Well, it’s good to just see her every once in a while,” the mother responds.

The nurse guides the mother and son to the back of the room, where an old woman is sitting in a wheelchair, looking out the window. She turns at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Her sunken eyes brighten with hope, but, as if being visited by strangers, her enthusiasm fades into the grey irises, an abandoned lighthouse sinking into the depths below.

As the young man approaches the old woman, she turns to the nurse with a clueless expression on her face; the nurse shrugs and silently walks away. The young man slips his hand into hers — the archer desperately tries to rectify his mistake, he wants the graceful crane to live, but alas, the crane’s spirit slips from his grasp and bleeds onto the ground. The old woman immediately retracts her hand and hides it among the folds of her nightgown.

“Lao-Lao, it’s me, your grandson,” the young man pleads as he scrutinizes the old woman’s face, “I’ve come to visit you.” He searches for a glimmer of recognition in her face, but all he sees is a blank canvas staring back at him. Those vivid brown eyes — ones that would widen with every crescendo of a story — are now a graphite slate: the artist has finally stored away their masterpiece.

The young man turns to look out the window in disappointment; he is faced with a sprawling, lush green park. Children run to and fro across the emerald grass, leaping over each bump and mound like a mountain goat over a crevice...

Renewed with confidence and enthusiasm, the young man kneels in front of the old woman, locking eyes with her once again.

“Lao-Lao, before we came here, mother sent me to buy some eggs,” he says gently, speaking in hushed tones, “so I went into the grocery store and picked out the two best looking cartons.” The old woman cocks her eyebrow at the young man, questioning why such details were necessary. Yet he continues.

“On my way home, I walked past the confectionery shop and immediately felt the urge to buy some—”

“— candy” the old woman interjects; somehow, her eyes begin to glow. The young man smiles, continuing with his story.

“But I couldn’t just walk into the store with two egg cartons in my hands, then I wouldn’t be able to pick out the candy that I wanted!” He exclaims, other people in the room begin to stare, but the young man doesn’t care; he and his grandmother are enveloped in their own world, a safe harbor from the gales and storms of judgment. He continues.

“So I left the egg cartons underneath a tall bush, went into the confectionary store, and—”

“— snatched the largest lollipop you could find,” Lao-Lao chuckles, “of course, the neon-colored swirls made your eyes spin round and round.”

She tries to draw a wide circle in the air, her hand shaking from the exertion. I grasp her bony wrist with my hand and we slowly outline a spiral; our hands two cranes gliding through the sky as they hold a silk thread, weaving intricate patterns before finding their way onto my nose and giving it a light tap. We both laugh quietly. Despite the grey curtain shadowing her irises, I know my Lao-Lao’s vivacity is still thriving in her eyes. She folds me into a deep embrace, a hen sheltering her egg in warm feathers.

“Ai-yah, my siu-bee-bee, you’ve come back to me,” she whispers softly, her body trembling from tears of joy. “I was afraid I lost you, I was afraid you flew away. But I knew you would return one day. I knew you would remember.”

I draw her closer, relishing in the warmth she provides.

Ralph Lam is currently a rising junior at Phillips Academy Andover from Hong Kong. Ralph enjoys writing about family, culture, and the impact they have on identity; he likes to read his work in front of his plants, they make for a quiet and respectful audience. He also tends to look far too closely into every scene of a movie. Ralph's work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and has been published in various literary journals.