The most vivid memories of my childhood in China are those sharing food with my grandfather. China was poor in the 1970s. Food was scant and meat a luxury. One poignant recollection is when my grandfather cooked game that he caught in the rice fields and shared that tasty meal with me. I also remember when he would offer me biscuit, quietly slipping it to me when the other kids weren’t looking. I last saw my grandfather when I was four — almost fifty years ago — just before my family emigrated to Canada. He died shortly after we left the village. For reasons largely beyond my control, I had never visited my grandfather’s grave. Nor had I fulfilled another Cantonese obligation: Introducing my wife to him. Relatives would prod me: “You were his favourite. You must go visit his grave.” With the extra fear of my village disappearing due to rapid urbanisation, I finally returned to Maaubou a few weeks ago and reconnected with family who stayed behind. I had not spoken with my paternal cousins in over twenty years. We were seven children — my two siblings, four cousins, and me — living under the same roof with…
