Requiem
By Emma Fallowthorn
8/29/04
I sat there with Nana, staring at the little box that held all that was left of him. No tears. No words. Tears had been cried and words had been spoken. Mom and Dad had departed, with my brother and all the other family and friends. They had said their goodbyes. It was harder for me. Harder for her.
I had always been the grandchild closest to Nana's heart. It had been no doing of mine, no fault of hers; my cousins were simply closer to their other grandparents—the funny grandparents, the sweet grandparents. Jamie and I hardly ever saw our other grandma, and grandpa had died years earlier. Jamie had simply slipped away from us, no matter what we did or said. And now he had gone for a soldier. Our grandparents had fought a war to keep us safe, but he still went his own way. That life gave him a security and stability that our family just could not.
So I was the one that Nana and Grandfather Chang were closest to. I was drawn to their pride and their pain—pain that their children had gone away, that they had to deal with things on their own. Frustration that kids like me existed: no friends my own age, only the very old who had stories to tell and the very young whom I could not understand—and who often walked away in frustration. I also had the trees. They understood me, I think.
Nana was looking at the box with anger in her deep-set, almond-shaped eyes. The weariness that she had not shown before showed clearly now. She made a little noise in her throat. I took her hand. "Nana? Why don't we go, you look really tired."
She shook her head, laughing a little. "I can't sleep at night. Every night I would toss and turn and I could never get comfortable. Grandfather would mutter 'Go to sleep,' and I would say 'I can't sleep without being in your arms.' He would grumble and fuss a little, but finally he would say 'Oh all right,' very grouchily and hug me tight. Then he would say, 'you see? Now go to sleep.' And I would. We did that every night for forty-four years! It was a little silly, I guess, but now I can't sleep until dawn. And I wake up crying. Or not even remembering that he's gone…"
I squeezed her hand, saying nothing. Nana's aristocratic face had never shown signs of age—only her hair, white as snow, twisted into a bun on top of her head. Now there were wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, springing not so much from a lifetime of laughter as from this week of tears. The realization of her age made me feel old. It hurt. I thought I had cried all I could. Maybe I hadn't.
Nana pushed me gently. "You should go, sweetheart. I'll keep the vigil. I can't sleep anyway."
Her voice held no room for arguments, and I was very tired. I hadn't slept well either. I kissed her on the cheek, bowed to the box, and left, still with no words. There was nothing I could say. She was still there, kneeling, as I backed out of the room and closed the door.
That night, I dreamed of dragons.
A/N: It's short, yes, but it means a lot to me. My grandfather died of cancer four years ago, after fighting it for nine years. Somehow, the courage that he showed reminded me of Wufei. (I wrote this in August but did not upload it until now. The date is date written.)