The one-year anniversary of my grandmother’s passing is coming up in two days. Here are my words from a year ago that I could not quite get myself to finish…

You left us on a Sunday.

The weather was unseasonable warm with flowers in full bloom.

You had developed stomach cancer and the doctors determined at 94-years old, you were too frail and weak to recover from chemotherapy or invasive surgery. You came home on February 10, lasted exactly a month, and said goodbye to be with the Lord in a better place.

You were not much in the eyes of the world. You didn’t have a resume. You stopped attending school after 5th grade to go work in a flower shop. You hated tofu and potatoes because you ate so much of it during the Japanese Occupation and the Korean War. Most of the rice was confiscated by Colonial Japan or just not around. You loved floral arrangement, you loved receiving flowers and admiring them in your later years because it reminded you of your youth.

It also reminded you of your great love, you told me repeatedly that a boy in town had saw you at the flower shop and would secretly follow you around. Finally mustering up the courage to confess his admiration to you, swearing he could not see a future for himself without you. You finally relented, and married this persistent boy at the ripe old age of Nineteen.

Your life would not be easy, far from it actually, which was common in those days. You had two daughters but both died during infancy, and when you were pregnant with your third June 25th, 1950, the Korean War broke out. You lost your husband to the war before your daughter was even born. You pressed on, nothing would stop you from trying to give her a better life than you had.

Time passed. The world changed, mostly for the better. Modernity settled in, as well as economic prosperity. You married your daughter off to family you weren’t crazy about, but you supported her anyway. She had two boys and had ambitions to move to the New World so she could provide a better life for them. However, as history tends to repeat itself in the cruelest of ways, you witnessed your daughter become a widow at an preposterously early age, just like yourself.

This wouldn’t stop you. The family went through and immigrated to the US, fates be damned.

You came to a country not speaking the language with a 5th grade education, and nothing but a few dollars and your bags in hand. You were 59 years old, you rolled up your sleeves went to go work in a factor full of recent immigrants in a sweat shop sewing clothes in mass. You would barely make minimum wage, but this didn’t stop you from wanting to help provide for your hard working daughter, and two grandsons.

You had a gift with children, and were talented in making the tastiest food, even while being on a tight budget. You saved every last penny you could knowing the grandsons would soon be of college age. Nothing would stop you from seeing them go to University and get opportunities in life that you never even had a chance to sniff.

You left the sweat shop after a few years, and based on recommendations through friends at the local Korean Church started working as a live in nanny to raise children for working couples that did not have the time to raise their own children. Funny enough, almost every child you help raise and feed came to say their farewells at your funeral services. With every single one with tears in their eyes because they all considered you to be person who loved them, fed them, and kept them on the straight and narrow.

You did this until you were almost 80 years old so you wouldn’t be a burden to the family, and to leave a sizeable inheritance for your loved ones. Towards the end, your back and knees betrayed you and you decided to retire and enjoy the rest of your days in peace.

You had a hell of a run. Saw four great-grand children, saw both grandsons grow up and into their 40’s and impacted countless others through your generosity, the magic you would stir up in the kitchen, but most of all the love you had for your daughter, grandsons, and their families. And for that, you’ll never be forgotten and will always live rent free in my heart until my days dry up and I get to see you again.