i woke up before my alarm rang and checked my phone. my mother had texted: "your grandfather just left, your grandmother and i are both very heartbroken!"

i knew, statistically, that this day would come. how foolish i was to think it would almost be announced, as if i'd already have a sense of his impending death and grieve accordingly? a sob overtook me and i called my mom, who's in china at the moment. she'd been visiting her hometown in china more frequently in recent years due to her aging parents, and...well, i'm at least glad she got to spend time with her father in his last months.

my mom didn't pick up. i texted "i'm so sorry" in English because i don't know what else to text her, don't know how to express an overwhelming grief in a language that almost treats death like a unspoken poison. relatives poured their support through texts of "be well, wishing he leaves peacefully" -- "leaving," of course, being a euphemism of dying. the literally term for death almost isn't ever used in its literal form seriously.

this is where i run through all of my final interactions with my maternal grandfather, and now i am beyond grateful to have plucked up the courage to visit China two years ago. i also remember staying at their apartment during one of those nights, realizing how old they've become, realizing it might be the last time i see one of them, realizing how soon their little apartment might become an archive, like that of my paternal grandparents, and sobbing behind closed doors. my grandparents are two generations removed from me, a continent away, and all i could really do during my time in china was call my friends back home and complain about the humidity. i do remember the times i sat by his side, albeit not quite understanding what he's saying, and seeing him passionately unbox the medals that the Chinese government had given him.

he was a poet. i didn't realize how influential his creative spirit would be until i too, shifted from the sciences to the humanities, knowing that at least one other member of my family did analogous work. he'd tell all his grandchildren -- and children, ostensibly -- to study hard, to read books. the zengcheng community loved him. there are numerous photos of people celebrating him and his work. i wouldn't be able to fully understand the scope of his work because it's all in Chinese, but i just searched his name up on google and...yeah, he's googleable. a 96-year-old in suburban china who would find his way up to an American search engine, despite not knowing how to use technology.

now i'm remembering him from childhood, when i'd return for the summers. he'd asked me and my cousin to help him transcribe his Chinese poetry through pinyin. the entire process was slow and arduous and...not fun for 12-year-olds who simply wanted to play games on their aunt's laptop. i told my grandmother that i didn't want to do it, and she told me that i didn't have to do anything i didn't want to do. i don't remember what happened after that. i did still help him transcribe some things, maybe out of obligation. i should have helped him more.

a few minutes later, she texts back. "Alright." she typed. "Can we call?" I asked.

we called. my mom wasn't crying, as opposed to me, who was sobbing until i could barely speak. she told me that she won't cry, and then for me not to cry, because he lived a very long life (96, just short of a century) and died peacefully. i sobbed more. she said that she wouldn't cry, repeating it more than several times such that i felt like she was saying it more to herself than me. it was comforting to know that he passed without too much struggle.

i was planning to apply for a grant to do a project in china after i graduate. the project was to collaborate with him to translate him poetry to create a portrait of his city, zengcheng. i suppose i'll have to dedicate the project to his memory now.

公公好，

I'm so sorry for not making it back in time. I love you, and I'm sorry and sorry and sorry that I couldn't do more with you. Please rest well.

你的孙子，

颐颐