When I think about her, I feel like I’m watching a silent movie. One that is slightly blurred and jumpy.
This movie though, is more like a trailer. Scenes, jumping from one to another.
I can see her hands.
Hands, rubbing white rice powder together, adding a little water, making a paste. She then slathers it on her face, leaving a thin film of whiteness on her soft skin.
She would then put some on my face, telling me that my skin will be soft and smooth, just like hers.
I remember her brisk pace, as she walks the short distance to her hairdresser. My little sister and I trailing after her, chit chatting away.
I can see her face clearly.
Her hair, grey and always in neat curls, framing her kind face.
I remember her in the kitchen, moving with grace and confidence and knowledge. No measuring, just instinctive.
I loved dinners at my grandmother’s house.
I remember the way her room looked and smelled. Always neat, always clean, everything in its place.
I like to think I got that from her.
But I don’t remember her voice. I try hard, listening to my past.
I cannot remember her voice.
But I remember her loving heart. Her cooking. Her warm smile. Her soft hands. Her wisdom.
My memories of my grandmother, it’s a silent movie.
My grandmother passed away 10 years ago in July. I miss her every day.