I dreamt of my grandparents last night. In the dream, we were back in their old home, the one where I spent so many weekends and school holidays as a preschooler. When I woke up, all these childhood memories came flooding back.
My grandparents weren’t rich, but they built a happy life together. They taught me that even a simple meal could feel special, as long as you shared it with someone you loved. Their kitchen was always filled with the smell of home cooking. Grandma had this way of turning the simplest ingredients into a feast – her pork belly with “mei cai” was my favourite growing up and honestly, I still miss that dish so much. No one’s ever made it quite the same since.
My grandpa loved watching wrestling. I’d sit next to him while he explained the moves and gave me his honest opinions on which fighters were good and which were overrated. Meanwhile, grandma would be just outside the kitchen, quietly getting the ingredients ready for dinner. Every afternoon, grandpa would walk down to the opposite minimarket with me to buy food. He’d almost always come back with a magazine for grandma too, just a small thing, but I loved watching how they looked after each other in all these little, ordinary ways.
There were times I didn’t want to go home. My dad would always force me to go for swimming training and I hated it. My grandparents never asked too many questions, they’d just let me stay over, and for those few days, I didn’t have to think about it at all.
Their love was simple, but real, and the warmth of it has stayed with me all these years. I miss them so much.