Oh Grandma, You're Dead!

Dear Bà Nội, There are a lot of things I should be sorry for I never slept over or ate your cooking or did much with you at all I can hardly remember the times when you could walk When you could get out of bed and I greeted the wrong grandma the last time I saw you open your eyes. Has it been a year already? Maybe it's been two. There are a lot of things I could say like everyone else Like I miss you, wish you were still here, hope you're doing alright, etc. But the fact is that I don't feel any of those things And I haven't ever lied about something that important in a long time I didn't cry when I saw the funeral man carry your corpse out the room I remember you looking a lot worse when you were supposedly alive too Did dying make you look younger somehow? Anyways, regardless, I never did much to you. I'm just a byproduct of your genuine love for your son And your son's genuine love for his wife And your genuine need to move away from the war But between us, there wasn't really much, was there? You lived about 371.7 miles away in San Jose, according to Google. You know Google, right? Well anyways, you moved a lot closer when my dad had to put you in the old-folks hospital A good 360 miles closer, that is. Near the K-Town district if I'm not mistaken. Your bed got a TV hooked up to it, and some kind of breathing machine at your bed's feet. Who watches TV now? Well, I hope they got something better to entertain you in heaven. Even though Heaven and Hell don't exist. But we like to believe in what doesn't exist, right? I mean, after all, I like believing that I cried on the car ride home because we had a bond. But I haven't ever lied for big things since then so... I think I really cried because you reminded me of the void that's beyond this planet. You know, the big D word. Call it Heaven, Hell, Nirvana, Limbo and Purgatory, whatever. You know what I mean. At least, I hope you do. I'm not even typing this in a language you understand, though. You'll be happy to know I had a girlfriend. So I can cross that off the bucket list. She and I don't talk too much now. Her name was Elise. When you died, she found out too. She's a nice girl, with lots of drive. If you were ten years younger, you would've liked her. Still, she wasn't more than a summer fling. I don't do too well with distance, as you can imagine. We're still friendly, I texted her like two weeks ago to catch up a bit. Anyways grandma, I want you to know that we're doing alright. I haven't changed much, and I think you're okay with that. I'm still the 5 year old toddler you knew before the Alzheimer's. Just add 12 onto his body. He still wants to be an actor, just in a different way. If you were 2 years younger and could still open your eyes, I'd show you my YouTube. YouTube to me is like TV to you. It's magic. It's wonderful. It's distracting, but delightful. I think I'll never stop trying to be big on YouTube. Like how I'll never stop hating seafood. I'm still short, just add like 2 feet and 4 inches to my legs. My brother's still taller than me. We're heading to college. Well, I am. He's about to graduate. Some things never change, Grandma. But I have the future to go towards, like you did. I... can't say I fully learned Vietnamese. I know about as much as my 5 year old self did. He knows how to make the sentences, but he doesn't have enough vocab for anything special. Just basic things like asking Mom to cook. Or thanking you for Christmas money. I wish I could say you'll stick with me, but... The world's changed since you've left. I don't think your culture will live on in me, just in the many phở restaurants in Little Saigon. Somehow, I think you're okay with that. You never yelled at me when I was a kid so... I'm still a kid. Dad's not your kid anymore, though. He didn't cry for you. He was too busy with me, I guess. None of us can be kids anymore. I'm the only one that's still young enough. And soon, I'll be the only one that's left from Dad's side of our genes. Everyone else I know is from Mom's side. Mom's mom hasn't died yet, or gotten Alzheimer's. It's really a miracle. She'll turn 90 soon. And she can survive catching a cold. She can still walk too, but with a four-legged walker instead of just a cane. She still cooks and stuff for us too. But I can make macaroni better than her. I'm gonna go now. Good talk grandma. Today's Lincoln's birthday, so I don't have school. Enjoy your long nap. I know I should nap more. Ah, one day. Anyways, we don't need you anymore. You're irrelevant now but... I think you're okay with that.