She used to cook me instant noodles whenever I visited her. She knew that my mom was against making them for me because they weren’t exactly the healthiest thing for a growing boy to eat after school. But she also knew that I loved eating it. And that I particularly appreciated that she would always slightly undercook the noodles and reduce the soup. She knew that I really loved having an egg and spring onions with it because it felt fancier. She knew that I liked eating out of the pot instead of a bowl. She would silently cook this for me without saying a word to my mom.

When I graduated, she had heard that I moved to Toronto to live on my own for the first time. At this time, she was beginning to have difficulties walking and picked up the cane. She commuted roughly 2 hours from Mississauga on her own to get to my new apartment downtown that was hardly furnished, with an even emptier fridge to match. With her, she brought a variety of pre-cooked Vietnamese dishes, a styrofoam box of rice, and a bag of tangerines with her.

We sat and ate tangerines together that day as the sun set.

My broken Vietnamese always made her laugh. But for some reason, I always felt like she understood what I meant anyways.

I wasn’t the greatest grandson. I hadn’t been able to visit or talk to her much in the last few years because of whatever reasons and excuses that I made up for myself.

I was able to see her recently, but with my new haircut, she couldn’t recognize me.

I wonder if she ever felt how much I appreciated every time she made me instant noodles in rebellion. I wonder if she knew that when she visited me in Toronto to bring in my new home, I felt more at home than ever. I wonder if she ever felt sad that I didn’t visit or call.

I’m sorry bà ngoại. I love you. Rest well.