Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 - 2017 | Page 481

History Speaks
The Independent Schools Foundation Academy, Tam, Julie - 14
T
oday is a day I’ve dreaded for a while now. There are butterflies in my stomach, not the nice kind that you feel when you’re
happy or excited, but this kind is more like a swarm of locusts that I read about on the news. Grandma passed away a few
weeks ago, she had lung cancer for a while now, and it broke my heart watching her being eaten up by cancer. Grandmother
was 92 years old, she is a history book, each page tells a different story. She would love to tell me stories about her past, like when
the Japanese came when she was about my age, and they killed her father, separated her from her brothers and sisters and she had
to hide. My favorite story she ever told me about is the story about her father, my great grandfather. Each time Grans tells me that
story, it brings tears to her eyes. Oh, Grandma, I miss you so much, why can’t you be here with me right now? “Jia Lin, we have to
go now.” Mother peeks her head out from behind the doorframe of my room.
Funeral music is playing, and relatives arrive one by one, all wearing black and weeping. I don’t talk to any of them, I’m busy
drowning in my own grief. Every time I close my eyes, I see grandma’s ever smiling face looking back at me. “Jia Lin, you will learn,
and grow. Be brave, my little one.” Am I hallucinating? I thought I saw Grans next to me, holding my hand and talking to me. I must
be going crazy.
The next few hours go by in a blur, I only remember being alert when Grandma’s sister, Grandaunt is giving an eulogy
which brings me into tears, some from laughter, stories about when they were younger, some from sadness, about how much she
misses Grans. I remember there were mountains of used Kleenex on the pews. Next, I’m dragged from one relative to another,
forced to mumble a “ Ni Hao ” and muster up some fake smiles. At the end of this, my facial muscles are aching. By the time I get
home, peel off the stuffy black dress, and camp out in my room, like I have been since my dearest Grandmother passed away.
Just as I flopped onto my bed, my little sister Jia Ying barges into my room. “Get up lazy. Mommy wants you downstairs right
now.” “If it’s about dinner, tell her I’m not hungry.” I mumble back. “Just go downstairs. Mom wants you there now.” I drag my
body down the stairs. Mother is sitting on the couch, with a fat package in her hand. I plop next to her, and ask about the box. “Its
for you, from Grans.” “Where did you find it?” I ask. “I was cleaning out her room just now, and I found this. It says its for you.”
“Thanks. I’m going upstairs to open it, if you don’t mind.”
I sit on my bed and tear open the package. Inside is another smaller box, and an envelope that says “read first”. It says,
“To my favorite grandchild, Jia Lin. You are the kindest person I know. You have taken care of me, attending to my needs,
giving me massages when my back aches, even just you smiling at me makes my heart warm and most of all, listened to me tell you
stories that I hope you will never forget. Even as a little girl, you would beg me to tell you stories. I remember your favorite thing
to do was to sit with me in my room, me telling you the story of my father, as a general during the battle against Japan. You loved
looking at the little pocket watch that my father gave me, the last thing he said to me was “Don’t miss me too much. Remember
that if you count 120 hours on this pocketwatch, I will be home. I promise you. I love you.” He broke his promise to me. I
remember how devastated I was, when a young soldier came knocking on our door with a sorrowful look on his face, carrying bad
news. I’m sure that’s how you feel now. I want to give you something that was very precious to me, as a gift to you. My father, your
great-grandfather’s pocket watch. I cannot make a promise like my father has, to count down the hours until I get to see you again,