Erma

I was ironing my clothes. Alone in the spacious living room. In my headphones, pianists Valeria Szervanszky and Ronald Cavaye were playing some Maurice Ravel. Impressionists water me well.

They turned me into a drainage system that’s finally working again. Rust were flushed away. Onto the iron, through my crumpled cloths, was my childhood unraveled on the ironing board.

My grandma passed away around 2 months ago. Thursday, Erma had a stroke and was declared hopeless. Now she is waiting for someone to stop the oxygen.

“Erma” is the widow of my uncle, my mom’s older brother who passed away 8 years ago. “Er” means second, “Ma” means mom. That’s how we call her in the village. On Thursday, after cooking lunch for my mom, Erma was found curled up in the corner of the bathroom unconscious. She was sent to the hospital immediately. While waiting for the ambulance, my mom took a needle and pierced all 10 fingertips of Erma’s to reduce the blood pressure.

Doctors said thanks to the pierced fingers, she was not dead before arriving at the hospital. But that was too much bleeding in the brain. There is no way she could survive a surgery. Yesterday, they took her back home.

When my dad sent me the text, saying grandma had passed away, it sounded like an relieved ending to a story, a certain period of time, a struggling era that could also be a start for everyone involved. I felt the grieveness penetrated me from my dad’s thoughts to mine. Personally, I couldn’t even remember any interaction with my grandma. All the images in my mind were too sad and pitiful to be remembered.

“Erma always said that when you’re back, she will cook this chicken dish for you. She remembers you liked it.” Mom told me on the phone Thursday.

I don’t remember the dish. But I remember a lot of things about Erma.

She was loud. She speaks loud, laughs loud, scolds loud, crys loud.

She always had such strong energy above people. Yes my mom and I we are very well-educated, she probably didn’t even finish middle school. But sometimes we feel like pupils in front of her.

Erma cooks a lot. A lot of very salty dishes, with loads of soy sauce and lard. Even though I couldn’t remember any one of those, I remembered me getting drunk one New Year’s Eve, I took too much local alcohol (50+ degrees). Erma thought I was such a badass hero.

I had to pretend that I liked her dish. She will be very happy and talk to me with her awfully accentuated mandarin: “Thank you!”

I was so bored living at her place. All I do was playing poker with myself, or one of the cousins that are not so village-styled. If I read too much, she will say, “Don’t study! It’s bad for your eyes! Come downstairs and play!”

Even if I was only reading greasy soap opera romantic stories.

The last time I saw Erma. She lost her husband. 8 years ago. I was tired of the mourning ceremonies when everyone came faking tears and repeating the same comforting words to her and her two daughters.

I wrote a song about it. “5 Bold Guys of the Funeral Band”. That was the name.

I was such a mean kid. Erma. I was not as good as you always think I was. You think being smart is everything. But it’s not.

I couldn’t go back to you anymore. The kind of life I fear of having when I was younger, is now unachievable, not anymore. Erma.

I’ve always had more freedom. Everytime I go back to the village, I would be showered in the eyes of jealousy. But more loneliness. Erma.

I know you knew that. That’s why you tried so hard to keep me accompany. You tried so hard to make me talk and smile. Then whenever I entered a fight with my mom and was ready to receive a slap on the face, you’ll pull me away and give me something sweet to eat. Those sweets tasted awful.

I’d like to smile for you again. Erma.

I’d like to talk to you about all the things you would not understand until you doze off. But I’ll keep on talking.

Until you dive deep into your sweet dreams.

Uncle will be there with you. Erma.

You don’t need to cry loud anymore.