Popo

“Let’s keep looking,” I whispered to my mother.

The “single suite” shown to us was barren. An overpowering smell of cleaning supplies filled the air, masking an underlying stench. A skylight, likely intended to lighten the atmosphere, instead exposed the unforgiving grey winter sky. A picture of an old man standing with his wife clung to the wall by a single strand of masking tape, serving as the only reminder that he once lived a life with a family. I could not picture Popo living anywhere except her apartment, where everything felt at home, in stark contrast to the bleak and temporary that emanated from the fort-like concrete walls of this old age home.

I knew that Popo would never agree. She prided herself on her independence, and refused to accept help ever since Gong Gong died. Many of the residents were idle, simply sitting and waiting, their eyes glossed over. Her eyes were fierce, and I couldn’t imagine them any other way.

***

Last month I placed my shoes on the welcome mat outside her apartment. I waited for several minutes, longer than normal. I knocked again, this time with a little more force, and was immediately interrupted by my grandmother’s voice, which was quickly followed by the faint sound of slippers swiftly shuffling. The doorknob jittered before opening just wide enough for me to see my grandmother standing behind. She looked smaller, her arms resting on the handles of her walker so that her back hunched forward.

Pushing the door fully open, I was hit by the strong yet familiar scent of herbal medicine. She looked down at my feet and gasped. “Aiya!” she shouted with great concern, “You should wear the slippers. Or you will catch a cold!”

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” I heard Popo’s voice faintly through the wall of the kitchen over the sound of boiling water. She had insisted on making me soup for lunch. As I rested on the chestnut leather couch, I looked around. I noticed the couch opposite me that was always empty, was now piled with laundry. On the coffee table, the red plastic candy dish that my grandmother would annually fill for Chinese New Year with dried fruits, honey glazed nuts, and lucky candies, was littered with pistachio shells and orange peels.

I heard a loud crash.

I ran to find Popo attempting to pick up the lid of a soup pot that had fallen onto the floor, holding onto the base of her walker in an effort to stay balanced. Chopped carrots were strewn across the white tile ground. I quickly kneeled down to help, picking up the lid and placing the pieces of carrot back onto the cutting board. As I stepped away from the stove, I glanced back at my grandmother, and saw the only thing keeping her upright was the kitchen counter that she rested on. Just five months ago, she moved swiftly, barely using her walker.

“I am fine. Popo can still cook you know.”

I looked at her arm, which trembled as she tried to lift a pot of boiling water. I felt a sudden pang of worry in my chest. My grandma turned around, studying me with her eyes, then passed me the pot of water.

I finished my soup and Popo immediately reached over to refill it, spilling some soup onto my arm.

“Careful! I don’t need-”

“You should not waste food! It is very important. When I was young, there was not a lot.” Her eyes were fixed on the wilted fig tree in the corner of the room. It was then that I remembered I had something to give her.

I lifted up a sleek white box.

It was clear that she had no idea what it was. I placed the box on the table, and slowly removed the lid. My grandmother watched with extreme attentiveness. The edges of her fingers rested on the table, and her neck craned forward. The iPad screen was smudgeless, and reflected the white popcorn ceiling above us.

“So we can Facetime! We get to see our faces when we talk to each other.”

“Is it free?”

“Yes Popo.” I turned it on, its screen shone a harsh bright light onto my grandmother’s face.

“Just use your finger to tap the icons...” I demonstrated by tapping the Facetime application, which activated the camera. At the sight of both of us on the screen, she giggled. “Is it free?” my grandmother asked again.

“...it’s- it’s...yea.” I handed her the iPad. She stared at it with both curiosity and trepidation. I watched her carefully, as her long pallid fingers circled the iPad screen like a lost sparrow, looking for a place to land.

“So you tap–”

She pressed her index finger onto the screen the same way that one would press the button of an elevator. The iPad did not respond.

“No. You gotta... see how I’m–”

“Okay okay,” nodding her head. She pressed it the same way, this time harder than before.

“Tap! Just–”

Her English began to falter. “Aiya! My ​yǎnjīng– ​my eyes, I cannot see. Everything so small, I need the glasses.”

I watched her alternate from pressing, pushing, and hitting; with nothing working in what had become a quest to open Facetime. The iPad rested idly in her hands, its screen illuminating her face, untouched and unfazed by anything she did. Popo’s eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

“I cannot! Jacob I cannot!” She raised her hands in defeat.

“No Popo! Uh– You...just need to keep–”

“–No! Jacob, I cannot.” She put her hand on my arm. “You are young, you do not understand what big difficulty it is for an old lady like me to do this.”

“Just try a few more minutes then–”

“–It is too much! It is too much!” She sat back with her arms crossed.

“Don’t...just...”

Popo was no longer listening. Her gaze returned to the fig tree. “My life is already too much.”

I did not know what to say. My grandmother always spoke first. I thought of the time when she taught me how to fry an egg, or when we would sit together on the flower-patterned carpet in the living room playing Mahjong. I stared at the pink clock that tick-tocked above the entrance to the kitchen, something that I used to do to pass the time when doing the Mandarin homework she gave me. I looked at the faded cut out photos that she carefully taped together and placed next to the fig tree. Photos that marked the passage of time. My eyes landed on a picture of my grandmother standing in front of Niagara falls. She wore a lime green long sleeved shirt and denim pants. There was no walker, and her arm rested on the black railing behind her, displaying the same collection of colourful jade bracelets that she still wore. Even with sunglasses her eyes were fierce. I glanced back at Popo, who stared at the iPad, halfheartedly pressing her finger to the screen.

“Maybe we should stick to long distance calling for now.”

“Yes,” Popo replied. I stacked the dishes and brought them into the kitchen.

“Do you want to make some sesame ​tang yuan​?” I called out.

Popo put the iPad down. “Aiya! I must help you!” She got up from her chair, grabbed her walker, and made haste, slowly, towards the kitchen.