My grandfather died and I left the cruise early. Hopped on a plane at the first port in Puerto Vallarta and flew to Vancouver. The funeral is on Saturday.
My grandfather was 93 years old. He was a Major General in the Chinese Air Force during WWII, and I get my temper from him. When he immigrated to Canada, he and my grandmother bought a laundry, and I still remember the smell, the damp air, the way he would take my hand and walk me down the street to the corner market where they sold plastic cups of vanilla ice cream, the kinds with those wooden spoons—or how he would practice his gong fu with me—or how he was always so sweet, so gentle. Such a rascal and buzzard. Pounding his chest and saying, “Me? I’m a strong man.”
Anyway, I miss him. My grandmother has Alzheimer’s, but I think she knows he’s gone. She keeps looking at his chair.