An-Yang

An-Yang                                             

Shua-nging! (Children!) The sound of her strident voice reverberates down the narrow stairwell. I think up that musty, dark, winding stairwell that led to her second floor apartment in Glendale as vividly as I did the sidereal day I established a meaningful relationship with my nan. through and through this relationship, I have come to know her as a friend, a confidante, and lastly, a woman I admire.

I was only sevener at the time, and the only thing I cared about was the event that my grandmother spoke in a very chinchy and grating voice, and that she kept on patting my hand (which annoyed me to no end). My grandparents are secernd- my grandfather lives with us, while she lives in a separate apartment by herself in Glendale. My family and I used to work through lunch at her house every week. I remember trudging up the dank, squeaky stairs with my siblings, biding An-yang!!(grandmother) all the way. She would yell in a similar fashion Ah! Shua- nging! (ah, children!) Smells of old-fashioned Shanghainese grooming would assail my senses, as my mouth watered in prediction of the savories to come.

One particular afternoon, after we had finished eating, we draped ourselves around her nourishment room.



I was sitting on a dilapidated couch, whose colours were made indiscernible by time, and was looking around her room. My view swept from the thin, worn carpet, bare in some places, to the deface wooden dresser, to a dirty doll with an eye missing. (My grandmother could never bear to throw anything away). She came and sat down coterminous to me, taking my hand in hers. The tight braid at the nape of her neck was coming undone. Wisps of thick black cop framed her square face. I looked down at...

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