My nieces destroyed a memento of my childhood,…
…and I can’t do shit about it.
A tribute to one of my best friends.
When I grew up, my parents were busy most of the time, so I was mostly raised by my grandmother. I loved her most in the family. I promised her when I grew up I would buy a car to take her around. What I remembered most about my grandma is her food. It was simple yet delicious. I learnt from her to use the least number of types of ingredients to cook.
Once in a while, she started a charcoal stove (bếp than) and the house was filled with a hearty fragrance. From grilled ribs to rice paper, everything from the stove made me drool. But it was best when she grilled the chicken. My grandma would save my favorite part for me: the skin around the neck. When it was done, she cut it into small rings, and I would savor them one by one. Looking back, my image of my grandma tied strongly with the stove, and was what I missed most about her.
My father didn’t have much time for me, but I knew he loved me nevertheless. Like all parents without time for their children, he spoiled me with gifts and games. He was happy that I could read early, and whenever he traveled, he would buy me books. A sudden spark of genius appeared one day and I drew a very good picture of him, and he keeps it even now, showing it to friends.
Once I was heavily interested in clay, so he would ask one of his workers to get me some from the river once in a while. I would play with them and create various shapes, one of which was a small teddy bear that I left in my grandma’s stove. It became a small clay sculpture, and though it was a rough creation, I treasured it.
Why? Partly because it was my longest lasting childhood memento. Partly because it was a rare memory of both my father and my grandma together. They never got along, and my childhood memories were all either with her or with him. For once, they existed in harmony in the little bear.
So there was always a small sculpture in my life. When my grandma passed away, I held the bear tightly in my hand and smiled my sadness away. When I missed her in the midst of the night, I got the bear out and looked at him. When I had my first girlfriend, I showed her the bear and told her about my grandma. We would laugh together, and the bear witnessed my first kiss.
When I went abroad to study in Singapore, I left the bear in my hometown. It wasn’t right to take him with me to foreign soil, and I didn’t think of getting him back when I went back to Saigon 3 years ago. But whenever I was back to my hometown, I took him out and touched him dearly. He was more important to me than ever, because growing up might be just a way life tells us how beautiful childhood is.
Then my nieces found it, and broke the little bear.
I didn’t know when. I didn’t know how. I only discovered it when I went back for the holiday.
I looked at him. 2 of the limbs were missing. There were sight of tortures, with multiple scratches all over his tiny body, especially his eyes. There was a high possibility he didn’t die in peace, for it was a painful and slow death, not just an accident.
I kept imagining different scenarios and I found myself with an almost uncontrollable fits of laughter. The same way I giggled when I heard that my grandma passed away.
I complained to my mom about putting my stuff around without asking me. I remembered to specifically told her that the little bear was extremely important to me. But what else could I have expected? No one would understand the meaning to me of a little clay bear.
I laughed it away, barely ate, didn’t talk to my family for the rest of the meal, and went straight to bed afterwards. You can’t teach an old dog a new trick, it seems. Pain causes me to laugh and despise contact with humans.
Should I have brought him with me? Would he still be there, unbroken? Would I not have this insatiable anger to myself for I have no one else to blame for this? Is there a way to end this tribute to the little guy in a lighter note?