Ông ngoại (Vietnamese word for grandpa on moms side) / why I value gratitude so much.

 In the vast ocean of existence, where moments pass like fleeting ripples on the surface, it is the smallest gestures that stick with me the most. For me, a single word of gratitude, a gentle touch of regard, can ignite a fire within my soul, melting away the icy chains of solitary.  

 Emerald green 1996 Camry. It was a horrible car. Every other week there would be a new problem with it, but my grandpa would always find a way to repair it. Get it running for just a little longer. My grandpa never threw things away. He would refuse to get another; rather innovate or just deal with something working slightly under standard. He wore shirts stained with paint and motor oil, scolding my mother if she even mentioned getting him some new clothes. With that, he spoiled me. Every dime he made from serving food, he would spend on me. He would spend days building me things out of wood. He built me trains, chairs, tables, boxes–a lot of boxes. I don’t know what they were for, but he made them for me.

 With his limited knowledge on mobile technology, he managed to take a picture of every remotely kid-friendly ad on television to show me. He could explain how any gizmo worked, and the elegance and functionality of each individual part. An avid consumer of those useless gadgets at the checkout lines of Walmart. He bought things just to take apart and rebuild. An art I would eventually take on. 

 I remember we would sneak out of the house and walk to McDonald’s, when my mom had already made food at home. He never got anything but would watch me eat my cheeseburger happy meal. He taught me to dip the apple slices in ketchup. I still don’t know if he was messing with me, but nevertheless; I still enjoy them. He taught me so much. We did everything together. 

 However, As time passed, circumstances changed. Those wooden boxes had become a relic of the past, a testament to the time when I acknowledged effort. 

 Sometime between that last apple slice and the end of sixth grade, I grew up. New things became important to me. I wanted to hang out with my friends. Do the things that they did. My phone became what I reached for accompany. Hi 

In late September, 2018– Bà Nội had fallen ill. I had just entered middle school. My great-grandmother turned 95 that year. Seemingly out of nowhere, her health abruptly plummeted.

 With the news, my grandpa quickly rushed to Vietnam to care for his mother. She had one child. The love of her life. Their bond was golden, only comparable to the bond that he and I had shared. 

 In Vietnam, he Facetimed home every day. But I never came to the phone. Too wrapped up in my own social existence. I didn’t come to the phone because I would’ve rather spent my time indulging in the lives of the online people of no significance to me. I would’ve rather seen what they were doing, and the fun they were having. 

 He had just started his retirement that year. The hardest-working person I know. Finally, collecting a well-deserved liberation. But this was not a vacation. Restless nights he stayed at the hospital by her side, and when not there, he was out in the exhausting heat, taking care of her crops and keeping her flowers alive. He kept her home lively, awaiting her return. 

 November 2nd: My sister’s birthday. I was in orchestra class when I got pulled to leave early from school. 

Grandpa had passed.

 I knew he had gotten sick. I knew everyday the desperate flame became frailer. But still, I couldn’t come to the phone. I cannot recall the last time I made an effort to be there for him. I hadn’t even gone with my family to drop him off at the airport. He had given me so much, and yet I could not be there for him when he needed me the most. Unable to be the pillar of support he so deserved. I had failed him–failed to reciprocate the unyielding love he had bestowed upon me.

 Amidst his surge, orange blood rushing from his mouth, he gazed around the crowded room brimming with loved ones, searching for a mere glimpse. So much family had flown in. My grandma, aunt and little sister landed a week prior. Amidst the tumultuous sea of solace, a singular ripple, so small, yet infinitely significant in its absence. My grandma believes his weary eyes were ceaselessly seeking mine.

 From my ong ngoai, I discovered the profound treasure of appreciation. A priceless inheritance that will forever intertwine our hearts in a bittersweet symphony. His fascination with the capacity of human ingenuity sparked my captivation in engineering. He’s taught me to see beauty in the smallest deeds.

 It has eluded me for far too long.. I do not need anything to fill those wooden boxes.

 My ông ngoai: a first generation immigrant, a service worker, a stubborn old man who loved to appreciate.