For the ways, you've taught me to be free.

“Above you are the stars, and below you is the earth. Like the stars, your love should be a constant source of light and like the earth, a firm foundation from which to grow.”

In marriage, there is a traditional handfasting ceremony and we are reminded that rings and cords are not permanent but perishable as a reminder that all things of the material eventually return to the earth, unlike the bond and the connection that is love which is eternal.

My grandmother passed away just a few days before the shelter in place order came to place in March 2020. She was my main caregiver and first believer. I remember those nights when I couldn’t fall asleep and her hand rubbing slow circles on my back as she told me stories of how when she was a kid she would sneak out dressing like a boy to go catch frogs. I think of that story a lot as I began to question my gender. I never got a chance to tell her who I am, chosen name, chosen body, and all that makes me a trans nonbinary person. But I think, and I hope, and I know, that she never needed to see me as the adult I am now, to pray and wish for my happiness.

It’s impossible to put into words what my Grandma meant to me. She was the best testament to what living a life full of dignity, humor and humility truly mean, and each and every day I strive to be the person she always wanted me to be happy.

She lives and breathes through what she taught me, to laugh, to enjoy the simple pleasures, and to be humble in my journey.

Her love gave me the strength to wish to do more with my life. Writing about her slow descent into dementia and assisted care, got me into college. I wrote about how I hoped to find the cure and fight to preserve her memories. Alas, my college experience didn’t go the route of being a doctor. It went into the route of working with youth and growing future storytellers. In my first work-study job as a teacher, I read books during storytime, animated my voice, made shadow puppets against the wall, and smiled so wildly like my soul was on fire. In those moments, I felt closest to my grandmother who was already starting to forget our treasured memories.

I think of her as I bite into a fluffy steaming hot milk bun, I’ve memorized her dim sum order as if it’s in my DNA, and I laugh loudly as if that is what life is all about. I miss my grandmother. I miss her wild snarky laugh and her hands on my back. As I am growing up without her in this physical realm, the lessons of connecting through trauma and language through stories and laughter stay with me. I laugh a little louder these days. I also cry a little less. And bit by bit, I’m healing.

I could go on for hours about the memories I have with Grandma. In the mornings we did tai chi. the afternoons watching her sew. the nights we did bicycles in bed. The days we would go picking up cans and saying hello to the Muni drivers. These as well as countless other memories I will forever treasure.

As a final tribute to my beloved Grandmother...here's the eulogy I could barely stutter out in tears.

What words can I use to talk about her?

writing all of her won’t bring her back

writing nothing feels like erasure

what memories can I pin down in words?

Is it the smell of fresh coffee in the brisk mornings

Is it the laughter of young and old down the hallways of 801 pacific?

Is it the young imitating the old in tai chi?

Memories are but stories

stories to pass down to our children and to keep our ancestors alive in our hearts.

I will tell my kids about how blessed I was to be her grandchild

How blessed I was

to have felt the sun in her smile

to have felt comfort in her embrace

To never have felt alone or lonely

Just seen and allowed to be free

Even if freedom to me was just staying by her side

and though i long

to embrace her colors that have faded

I anticipate finding her in moments of

Loud tummy aching laughter

Smiles that make our cheeks hurt

Fresh hot viet coffee in the mornings

And steaming fresh buns

I will teach my children

the months in the year

Like how grandma and I learned them

The knuckles are the long months

And the spaces in between are shorter

We will stumble through the multisyllable months

In our developing English

In our mismatched tongues

Knowing the only language that mattered

Between grandma and I were

Are you hungry

Are you warm

Do you remember me

And sleep well

I’ll see u next time.

And in this quiet grieving world

I hope you can sleep well till we see each other again.