Frailty is a Form of Grief by Maia Kowalski

1.

My great aunt’s house smells like bathroom cleaner and cooking oil. Her kitchen is white-tiled everything. There are always dishes in the sink. The range hood above her stove is broken; one of the panels has fallen out and exposes the hollow insides, the cords and the greased-up fan blades. She swears she’ll fix it one day when she has the time.

It’s summer in Vancouver, and I am 16 years old. I sit at the round, white kitchen table with a mug full of Hong Kong milk tea. There’s a Chinese newspaper on the table; my eyes jump from character to character, searching for something I might recall from childhood. Nothing jumps back.

My great aunt stands at the soapy kitchen sink with yellow rubber gloves. Bubbles of dish soap stick to her arms as she scrubs the bottom of a pot. After a rinse, she puts the pot on the dish rack and pulls off her gloves. She drains the sink with one loud gurgle and looks out the window.

“I think I’ll clean up the garden this afternoon.” My great aunt’s voice is soft, her English tinged with a Chinese accent. “What are you doing today?”

“I think I’m going to go downtown,” I say. 

“You should wear a hat,” she advises. “And some sunscreen. It’s going to be hot this afternoon.”

Any other day, I’d turn a deaf ear to unsolicited advice from relatives. But her voice reminds me of my grandmother’s, a voice I’d give anything to hear again, so I listen.

2.

In 13 years, I’m the one standing at my great aunt’s kitchen sink with the yellow gloves on. I wash her pots and pans and get the range hood fixed for good, even if it doesn’t mean as much now. I look out at the garden from the window above the sink. I make Hong Kong tea and bring it to the kitchen table.

My great aunt hunches over a newspaper. She traces a finger down the lines of Chinese characters as she reads; her hand shakes. There are liver spots on her face, and I can see her scalp, her hair so thin. I put the mug on the table, and she looks up at me, smiles.

We sit together as she reads the paper in silence. It’s summertime, but she’s wearing a sweater, and she shivers. She grabs my hand.

The weight of her hand is so light, it’s as if she’s already a ghost. I don’t even notice her let go until I catch her fingers floating back over the paper, moving dutifully from character to character. I wonder when I’ll hear her voice again, once all is said and done. I wonder if it’s better or worse if I don’t.

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MAIA KOWALSKI — Maia (she/her) is a writer from Toronto, Canada. She has degrees in both journalism and creative writing, and has been published in Existere, White Wall Review, and Montréal Writes, among others.

Art by LINDSEY MORRISON GRANT — Self-identifying as a neurodivergent, two-spirit, elder storyteller and contrarian deeply rooted in the roar and lore that’s become Portlandia of the Left Coast, The Artist attributes success and survival to superlative supports, mindfulness practice, and daily creative expression in words, sounds, and images. Currently, their visual work is represented by The Siy Gallery of San Francisco.