Popo

Thank you. Goodbye.

By gent

Lag Fyrir Ömmu means Song For Grandma

When I first heard Ólafur Arnalds play this live 4 years ago, he explained that he'd written it for his grandmother, and as people do, we tried to relate. Pretty sure there wasn't a dry eye in our cosy room that evening after the tune.

I didn't expect that so soon after I would relive all the tension in the notes, the gentle crescendo of emotions, all the way to the lower settling chord for the final resolve.

Popo (my grandmother in Cantonese) passed away Friday, 7 December, 2018. I received the news from my mother’s text message at 11:32 a.m.

I had just landed in another Malaysian state for a prior event when I found out. Although I had always recognised that this day would eventually come, I never imagined how intensely I would grieve. Pearlyn stood beside me, holding me for what felt like an eternity, and I was profoundly grateful for her unwavering support.

The following days passed in a blur. Despite our various obligations, we all gathered at the funeral parlour. My personal religious convictions at times conflicted with my responsibilities as a son, brother, nephew, and first-born grandchild. Still, when I finally arrived—regrettably late again due to trying to find a flight—I immediately set down my belongings, donned the customary white shirt, and joined my family to mourn and pay our respects in the traditions Popo knew.

In those moments, it was never about any of us; it was for Popo.

This was the same Popo who comforted me during the most devastating break-up of my life by making me wax sausages—‘lupcheong’.

Only months before her passing, I introduced her to the love of my life who is now my wife, and she gave her approval. I will always treasure that memory.

Popo loved her food, and she would cook for us whenever she had the chance. She ran her own restaurant in Ipoh, Perak, Malaysia. She also worked in England, Taiwan, and the United States, despite never receiving any formal education. She was a formidable woman, and she could be hard on us—yet this was simply her way of showing love.

Gonggong (Grandpa) suffered a stroke while she was working in the United States. Earlier this year, she confided in me that she had wept quietly, alone in a cold room, unable to return home at the time.

I can only hope she understands why I too arrived late. I had my own obligations, and now I carry a few regrets. Still, I have a feeling she knows I did what I could.

Immediately after she passed, I found myself desperately scrolling through my phone, searching for photographs of us together. It was the only way I knew how to grieve. Growing up, I never experienced the sort of large family gatherings some people take for granted; most of my relatives were scattered across the globe.

Popo was the only grandparent I truly knew, the only one with whom I ever spent any meaningful time. I am grateful for the recent years I got to visit her as often as possible.

Still, I arrived too late. I still missed her.

There is never enough time.

This Singer sewing machine (pictured, showing Popo using it) was manufactured around 1928. I’m glad that my brother, ever the craftsman, will inherit it.

I recall her fixing curtains and bedsheets, both probably heavier than she was. I sat behind her the entire afternoon. She did not speak, but we were all right.

Popo had a lot of belongings, but they were all worthwhile. They helped feed our family for generations, and with those tools—like her old wok and that Singer sewing machine—she raised four children, and then went on to feed us, the next generation. I’m sure that wok wouldn’t look out of place in an online community dedicated to things made to last.

In recent years, I also caught sight of something I wish I hadn’t—a display of hurtful behaviour from certain family members towards her. Her own offspring and theirs. I denounce them as family.

Even though she wasn’t always easy to be around, she deserved better. I’m sorry she had to face such heartbreak during her twilight years. I know she’d still look upon everyone kindly from above, yet it pains me that she experienced what some might call an inevitable disappointment.

I’ve felt many emotions over the past few days—anger, sadness, and regret. Who am I to judge, though, when I was late myself? Perhaps the anger I felt was partly directed inwards, a way of not facing my own failings.

Popo isn’t here to tell me otherwise anymore.

Many family members and friends came for Popo. Those who could not attend sent messages. The stall owner of her favourite noodle stall spoke warmly of the Popo she had known for decades. The entire village was aware. It always comes back to food, doesn’t it, Popo? What a lovely thing.

It was several days of grieving. I had never seen my elders cry as they did, nor could I have imagined the depth of feeling shown by the younger ones. I never thought I could break like that myself.