One more meal with grandpa

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 our grandfather. I am the youngest. At a local restaurant to celebrate my return, a cousin shared a story at the dinner table to many chuckles: “When we were young and grandpa was cooking, we only got to savour the aroma of the food. Kai got to eat it with him.” I then shared my own memory of grandpa slipping me biscuits behind their backs. To my surprise, they laughed and said they all knew.

When the time came, we went to the field where my grandfather lies so that I could fulfil my duties and introduce my wife. It was long overdue.

As customary, we laid out food offerings and planted joss sticks on my grandfather’s grave as we paid our respect. I placed gold chocolate bars on his grave, just like how he slipped biscuits to me. Fifty years earlier, my grandfather fed and spoiled me. That afternoon, I finally returned the favour.