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Grandson learns that time is the mind’s trick

By Andrew Lam Pacific News Service
Monday October 02, 2000

Nearing the end of her life and plagued with senility, my grandmother fell into a strange state of grace. At 95, she believed herself a young woman again living in her hometown in Vietnam’s Mekong Delta.  

One day when I visited her in her convalescent home in San Jose, where she had lived for the last decade or so, I asked grandma to name the names of her four children and she looked a bit astonished: “Children?” She said in her frail, hoarse voice, “Mister, but I am only 17.” 

Receding from her memories are the years in America, years full of longing and grief for her lost homeland.  

Lost, too, mercifully, are her memories of the war and the incredible suffering it caused her.  

The garden outside her window teemed with life, butterflies and bees hovering over gardenias and roses, but her vision had begun to travel far beyond its walls.  

In her mind, grandmother had already gone back to a happier time, rowing her boat down the river in the old country, singing some folk songs, watching white cranes fly above the green rich rice fields, celebrating Tet with relatives and neighbors – to an unhurried world of long ago. 

My parents and aunts sighed and shook their heads whenever they visited, feeling guilty for not being able to care for her at home, sad that their mother no longer knew them.  

On the other hand, I took a different attitude altogether. I saw that there was a mixed blessing in her senility and forgetfulness.  

After all, grandmother had, in her own way, managed to conquer time. 

Years ago, when she was still lucid, grandma bought a wooden clock carved in the S shape of the map of Vietnam from a shop in Anaheim’s Little Saigon. Above her bed, the clock ticked mournfully, a constant reminder of how long she’d spent away from her home and hearth.  

Sometimes she would watch that clock tick as she counted her rosary and then cried silent, bitter tears. 

Indeed, America’s concepts of time only helped to confuse her.  

She did not know why, for instance, a grandson had to leave home at 18.  

When I left home for college, she wept. I overheard her protesting to my mother in an incredulous voice: “How can you let him go? He’s immature at 17 and now he’s 18, somehow he’s mature? Not everyone is a real adult at 18 or 21 either. It’s not so simple.” 

Once, I remember, she asked me how far Vietnam was from California.  

I shrugged, “Well, I guess it’s about 18 hours.” Hearing this, grandma made a scowling face and snapped: “If our country is only less than a day away by your easurement, then tell me how come I’ve been waiting for 15 years, seven months and eight days now and I am still here in America?” 

Since her exile to America at the end of the Vietnam war, time had been her enemy, telling her how long she’d been away from the country of her birth. It finally lost its grip on her that last year.  

That year before she died, she was no longer ruled by the clock. She traveled freely most of the time to the distant past and she seemed, if not happy, then at peace. 

The last time I saw her alive, we held hands. Perhaps grandma thought I was a beau from the next village come courting or a distant relative, but she blushed when I told her that she was beautiful. 

“Let’s hurry,” she said, her eyes staring at an impossibly far away place, “we’re going to be late for the celebration at the temple.” 

Perhaps she is there now. As for me, since she passed away I am, I must say, not as fearful of old age as I once was. When I grow old and senile, I too should like to forget all the sorrow and sadness in my own life. Memories of heartbreaks and great losses will be dissolved like smoke in the morning wind. Like grandma, I’ll relive instead all the moments of intense happiness: walking with my first love down Bancroft Street at dusk; singing silly songs with my siblings on Christmas Eve when we were kids; luxuriating in my mother’s arms as a child after a warm bath; watching the moonrise with my cousin over the ocean on a tiny island in Thailand. 

And above all, I should like to return to that windblown pine hill of Dalat, Vietnam, a plateau of forests high above the sea where I grew up. 

I will sit again with my best friend in fourth grade, the two of us leaning against a pine tree and looking up at the clouds drifting by, our sweaters and hair stuck with pine needles after a game of hide and seek. 

It was on that same hill that I later lost my first watch, a Mickey Mouse watch which I got for my seventh birthday.  

Mickey’s arms pointed at the hours and minutes that slowly led me away from my childhood wonders and eventually my homeland. I had cried for days afterwards, but I now think it’s apt that the watch should lie decaying somewhere on that lovely hill. 

For perhaps there is something that the adult forgets and only the very young and very old could know: That time and space are an illusion, a trick of the mind... 

See me then as a starry-eyed child among pine trees, staring at the shifting sky, enraptured by an impossible sense of beauty, delighting simply to be in the world.