The dank smell of the cool rain still
permeates the air, and the moist, crisp, clean atmosphere that comes
after a rough storm is refreshing, especially after the uncomfortable
sticky-hot days one often endures while in tropical Taiwan. The mosquitoes
have not yet begun their obnoxious biting and buzzing, so the gray purity
of the sky is not violated by the black specks of the pesky insects.
The stone walls of my grandfather’s
house are high, enough so that it would take a ladder to hop them, yet
low enough so that the lazy willows that line the estate could casually
drape their tendril fingers over the tall pale sentries. They wave easily
in the cool light breeze, the afterglow droplets of the orgasmic rains
falling from the dangling light-green leaves. Soft moss that collects
on the small, oddly shaped boulders lining the walkway into my grandfather’s
house wallow in the dampness. The tar-finished driveway is slightly
wet, spotted with slick areas that still shined in the nearly absent
light.
Dusk is falling. In the distance,
a dog barks, slowly, deeply, gruffly. The syncopated calls ring out
clear, but there is no answer. The dog stops.
I rise from my place on the steps
of the porch, and the white screen door bangs shut, bouncing twice quickly,
then falling silent behind me after I push through. I walk slowly through
the living room, absorbing bits of a culture of which I am no longer
a part. The red embroidered couch pillows. The brisk and boisterous
Chinese calligraphy hanging on massive linen scrolls on the walls. The
incomplete game of Chinese chess on the ebony coffee table…
I make my way to the dining room and
sit down on one of the high-backed, red velour cushioned chairs. The
woodworking of the chairs is detailed and meticulous: every scale of
the carved dragons is drawn into the hard cherry wood. As I plop down,
the plastic seat covers force out air in a "whoosh." I am
late for dinner, so the table is empty except for a few dishes.
After I pick up my chopsticks and
raise them to my mouth, I gaze out the lightly veiled window in front
of me for an instant. The white mesh billows in a small gust of wind
that blows through the screen. I turn away from the window and to my
bowl.
I pick gingerly at my half-full bowl
of rice with my red chopsticks. It is a very nice bowl, a pure white
china one with a wide red border around the opening of the bowl, trimmed
with gold. The moist smell of the rain is still present, even indoors,
masked only slightly by the musty smell of age in this house. Nothing
can be heard except for one odd noise.
I lift my head to the source.
My grandfather is trudging down the
long, dimly-lit hallway of his house, dragging his dirty worn-out taupe
slippers along the dusty linoleum floor, sweeping it with a "schwit..
schwit…" sound as he travels in short strides, his feet never
exactly clearing the ground. He grey wool sweater is draped on his sagging
shoulders, somehow making him seem decrepit and ancient during his laborious
ten-yard trek to his room at the end of the hallway.
My mother, in her fluorescent pink
sweatshirt, Levi’s jeans, and white-and-pink sneakers, sees his
slow progress and bounds over to help, covering in four strides the
distance my grandfather struggled in forty baby steps. She takes his
arm and kindly helps walk him to his room.
I turn away and stare blankly at the
sticky grains of rice, and after a few minutes, I hear a door creak
and shut.
My grandfather was once a happy man,
lively, quick to laugh, kind-hearted, and wise. Now, however, only the
latter two adjectives apply. No longer does he belly laugh – his
outbursts are few, and those that do emerge are weak, "heh heh
heh heh heh"s he forces out to show pleasure. Age has taken its
toll. He spends his day trying to take a walk around his large estate,
rather than hiking up the mountains near his house as he used to. He
rarely leaves the house or has contact with people anymore, something
he loved to do. His wife is gone. There seems to be little joy in his
life now.
My grandfather may pass on soon, though
I pray he doesn’t. Maybe then, he can be reunited with Grandmother.
But then, in a way, it seems so much of my grandfather already died
with her. The joyful gleam in his eye is gone.
I finish my dinner and rejoin the
peaceful (and less painful) world outside.