I can't believe it's been seven weeks.

Dear Great-Grandma,

I’m sorry I had to say goodbye so quickly, and that I won’t be physically there for the funeral but everyone is telling me that you’d understand. You’ve been gone for 12 hours and I don’t think it’s fully sunk in yet that I won’t ever hear your voice again. I don’t think I fully believe that I’ll come home from America and you won’t be there to go through my 3000 photos like we did with Europe tour in 2005. I have some idea that if I went to ask you for advice as to what I ought to do on Monday, that you’d tell me to get on that plane, because life’s too short and unpredictable, and I need to make the most of it now.

I suppose it shouldn’t have been that much of a shock, since you’ve been ill for the past year or so with the spinal fractures and cardiovascular problems (and in fact, I’m so thankful that you held on for my 21st). I know how you had to struggle through every day on your walking frame, and I hope wherever you are now is a pain-free and peaceful place.

I’m sorry I never got around to learning all your marvellous recipes, especially the kueh. Even though when we made cendol I shook my head in exasperation, wondering how someone could cook entirely without measuring cups and spoons, I was actually in awe of you. And I still am, because no one else makes Malaysian cakes the way you could. Or in the quantities that you could, excluding the commercial suppliers. Somehow you managed to feed a hundred Buddhist Group members with five different types of kueh and still have leftovers. Oh, and while we’re on the topic, I’m sorry I didn’t find a guy soon enough for you to be around to make kueh at my wedding. I know you were excited (as was Grandfather, who planted the Stephanotis).

I’m trying to sort through my memories of you and a couple of random scenes stick out. Most of them revolve around me hanging around in the kitchen.

When I was in kindergarten, you told me I needed to eat more because I looked like a “beanpole” and I am pretty sure that the, “Minerva! Get more food!” continued for at least the next five years. At the Buddhist group meetings I was a really picky eater and nibbled at noodles, but you were one of the adults who kept piling food on my plate and telling me that I’d never grow.

One day, I went swimming in the backyard pool and when I was about to go into the house, I saw you squeezing green slimy stuff out of a sieve and I went, aha, so that’s how they make cendol. It’s not worms after all. Around the same time when I discovered sago wasn’t actually frog spawn.

When I was about 9 and started getting pimples you and grandma were babysitting me and my brother, and we were eating rice. You told me that if I ate every grain of rice off my plate, I’d have a clear face.

At some point in primary school, my parents sort of lost interest in my report cards because they were getting repetitive, but I discovered that if I took them to your house and showed you my good grades, you’d never fail to get excited and give me various forms of Ferrero chocolate.

I still have all the toys and clothes you bought me from Chinatown, like the music box, or the Cheongsam-style tops.

I also remember gauging my growth against you because you were about 140cm and you were the first adult I was taller than.

When you came back from Malaysia in 2004, you showed us all the photos of your relatives from Alor Setar and I remember the girl with the enormous eyes, and her mother who looked like a model and was ridiculously tall for a Chinese.

Most of the Chinese banquets I’ve had (as well as all the hours I’ve spent in Chinese restaurants) in my life were thanks to you.

I’ll never forget your fashion advice, but I always found it amusing how you’d tell me straight to my face if something looked good but you’d tell my mother to tell me if something looked bad. Oh, and I’ll never forget the day you scolded my mother for wearing a skirt shorter than mine.

You were always incredibly strong for such a tiny woman, and I think the only time we realised how frail you were was when you contracted pneumonia and had to go into hospital in 2006, which was scary because you were in an induced coma for a few days. And then a few years later you had a fall. Two, actually. But you fought back so hard and went through the weeks of rehab without complaining that I’d have to look at the basket of meds on your desk to remember that you were on the other side of 80. In fact, I remember when you came home from the hospital and then started talking about your mother for the first time, and how she told you about how important it was to be brave and strong. I wish I’d found out more about your family, about your sisters and how you’d made kueh and been a seamstress. And now that I’m older I think I can actually start to appreciate how difficult it must have been to adjust to life in Australia. Or how difficult it must have been, having to care for great-grandfather, who was almost blind, towards the end of his life until he went to the nursing-home.

One of the things I was famous for in primary school was having so many names on my birth certificate that I broke the school database. Your first gift to me was my Chinese name and while I only properly learnt how to write it recently, whenever I write it from now on I’ll think of you. In fact, I’m going to work at learning Chinese until I’m fluent, no matter how many years it takes.

What also makes me really sad is that I’m the only one of your great-grandchildren whom you got to see really grow up, leave school and turn 21. Please watch over my brother as he preps for his HSC, and please look out for K and P too, who weren’t lucky enough to know either grandfather or great-grandfather.

Something else that’s bugging me is that you’ll miss my graduation, especially since you were so excited that I got into med school. I hope I’ll grow up to be a good doctor and that I’ll be able to make you proud one day.

Love always,
Minerva.