A/N: Before Super came about and the Saiyan lifespan is given, I had a headcanon that Saiyans lived a very long time.
The warm summer air licked the bare skin of my face and arms as I flew high over Satan City. It was enveloped in a shimmering mirage, the rising heat making it impossible to discern any details. Where I was headed was a little bit cooler. I was looking forward to that—and to the food in the large basket hanging off my elbow.
The landscape shifted far below me. Barren, rocky land gave way to greenery. And then the land gradually rose, a familiar mountain looming higher even than I was.
In minutes, the quiet, untouched hill with a lone, simple marble marker came into view. I landed in the grass and sat down in front of it.
It always was her very favorite picnic spot.
Etched into the cold white marble was:
In loving memory of Son Chichi.
A devoted wife, mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother.
It was the place the boys, grandkids, and I chose to scatter her ashes. That way, she'd always be at home.
I sat down in the soft grass next to her memorial and admired the mountain for several moments before digging into the basket.
On the very top was a single flower I tucked in there to keep safe on the flight. A red rose in full bloom. Her favorite. I set it at the base of her marker, making sure it stayed balanced, and then pulled out the food.
Nothing was ever as good as her cooking, but some restaurants in certain cities happened to make some dishes that came very close. I pulled out the box of steamed pork buns from a place in West City, the fire-grilled fish and rice I made, a certain salad from a small café in South City, and the rest of the containers full of different foods from different places that were the closest things I could find to Chichi's cooking.
Not even anything in Other World compared.
Maybe it was just because she made it. She put so much care and love into everything she made. Like the blue gi I wore—lovingly patched up in more than a couple of places over the years. That was the last gi she made for me before her old age brought painful arthritis.
Between the food that tasted like home and the familiar, stunning view in front of me, my mind drifted back to simple, happy times.
Chichi—very young and wearing a long, poufy white dress—walked down the aisle toward me, her dad by her side. Her ear-to-ear grin made my heart speed up and I had no idea what it meant back then.
My heart did a lot of weird stuff around her our first several weeks together. Like skipping a beat when she grinned at me. Bulma's smiles didn't have that effect on me. No one else's smiles did. Only Chichi's. I did whatever I could to make her smile at me like that again and again.
Years later, Chichi was busy in the kitchen, cooking up a storm for the four of us. She expertly managed several different foods as they sizzled and bubbled on the stove, humming a merry little tune as she worked. When she turned and smiled at me, my heart fluttered in my chest.
It was the smile she gave me when I was home after being gone for far too long—the smile that lit up her teary eyes and the whole room. She always welcomed me back. Even after seven years.
I made things so hard on her and sometimes that smile was gone—replaced by tears of grief, anger, worry, or all the above. Even still, she put up with me and welcomed me home.
Chichi waited and I decided I would, too.
I never could imagine myself ever loving anyone else. But our house sure was quiet without her around getting mad at me whenever I made a mess. She once joked she'd go out yelling at me. She did.
Our little house really only came to life when Gohan and Goten and their families came to visit. Gohan and Videl and Goten and Marron were all great-grandparents themselves. They looked their age but were all in good health.
The tears and grief after her ninety-seven years took her had stopped long ago. All that remained was joyful memories and the hope I'd see her smile like that at me again.
I packed up my basket. I touched my fingertips to my lips and rested them on her name carved into the cold, white marble—my breath hitching in my throat—and whispered, "Thirty years to the day and I still miss you so much, Chi."