Paper Cranes

It was never enough. I’ve lived in this room, died in this room, spent my life in this room, yet it was never enough. Sunlight sliced through the pane of glass as I lay down on my grandfather's bed. Wrapped in his cotton blanket, I bathed in the warm scent of honeysuckle that still lingered in the air. My pillow was still moist with tears as I stared blankly at the moldy ceiling, the wallpaper peeling from days of rain. My childhood was spent in a provisional playpen, its walls sealed by dozens of his manuscripts, which my grandfather would hastily cover if I peered too close, even though he knew I could not read. Eventually, as the rough pencil markings in the corner of the room grew along with me in messy lines, the playpen was gone, instead, my grandfather would sit me down on his bed and pull-out books on Eastern philosophy, their covers already torn off and the pages yellowed with age. The books that he gave me quenched my curiosity, but eventually, my gaze started to linger on the pile of my grandfather's manuscripts, still strictly off-limits.

When I blew out the thirteen waxy candles on my birthday cake, I was already enrolled in my first international school, and the routine that I was so accustomed to before was broken. The lunches, instead of rice and fried noodles, was a round dough-like substance, garnished with large tomatoes and melted cheese. In the lunch line, gripping my metal lunch tray tight as to the point my knuckles turned white, I turned to the girl behind me, and poured out all the inquiring that I had gathered since setting foot on campus. She, of course, looked as perplexed as I was, and without hesitation, pointed to the sign with “Pizza” written in neat block letters by the servers. As I peered down at the triangle of dough, I glanced at the tray, and noticed an isolated girl, her cheeks as flushed as the tomatoes that were splattered in a messy pile, making the “pizza” a soggy mess. Despite my lactose intolerance, I scarfed up the pizza, and with that final bite, the girl in my reflection was no more.

As I stumble back to my new and polished American home, its front door a bright yellow, the rickety porch creaks under my feet, stuffed in too-small converses. My grandfather sat somberly in an armchair, hands folded together, eyes pointed down. With age, his vision had started to deteriorate, and his hands ached and became limp. Unable to write his stories, and unable to read his beloved books, he’d rest in a melancholy state in the mornings, and erupt into a violent rage at night. In the mornings, a new angry splotch of ink would appear on his walls, and his bookshelf would be toppled over, a haphazard pile of literature on philosophy lying on the hardwood floor. I tumbled into the bathroom, my stomach contracting and squeezing out its contents into the white ceramic toilet. I felt a large hand rubbing my back, and my grandfather's voice soothing me as I regurgitated clumps of dough, filling the toilet bowl with a concoction of bile, pizza, and tears. Wiping away bits of vomit in hopes of getting rid of the acrid taste in my mouth, I grabbed bleach and towels from the cabinet. Grandfather stood in the corner of the bathroom without a sound, as I wiped at the yellowed stains on the floor and toilet in frustration.

I scrubbed away at the Asian in my Asian American identity as if it were a stain. I rejected my grandfather’s invitation to join him in reading Mencius only to ask him if he’d ever
heard of Plato. As a futile attempt to assimilate with my classmates, I spent afternoons tuning in on Cartoon Network, characters hopping about on the glowing screen. I kept stumbling, faithful that one day America would love me back. And my grandfather, whose hands had become wrinkled with age, silently and patiently, spied on my efforts, ready to catch me if I were to fall.

“Ming-Chuen come on!”, Little Zi-Cheng tugged on my black gown, and dragged me to the refreshments table. The funeral home was eerily busy, with managers rushing back and forth. Distant relatives who had come to pay their respects chattered about, speculating about what he had left them, as my grandfather's smiling face, captured for an eternity, was displayed on the casket. Many people speak of feeling the dead’s aura around them, enclosing them in a warm embrace one last time, but I could feel nothing. I still saw the familiar smile, the missing tooth, the browned skin from the sun, but the grandfather that I had spent my childhood with was nowhere to be found.

I left the suffocating room, and slowly stepped into the backyard, fully aware of my grandfather's absence. Ripe mandarins dangling heavily on branches swayed in the air as a chilling breeze swept up stray twigs. I inhaled its fresh, tangy scent, and bathed in the nostalgia that it brought. The orange hard candies that never seemed to run out, the countless days I spent with my grandfather reading Confucious in the grassy yard, if his arthritis allowed it.

“If you look into your own heart, and you find nothing wrong there, what is there to worry about? What is there to fear?”

I felt something smooth brush against my bare leg, drastically different from the texture of leaves. I looked down, to find a yellowed page. Curiosity overflowed, and as if there was a magnetic force pulling toward it, I picked it up. Yet another frigid wind brushed against my arms, already covered with goosebumps. Another familiar page flew by, and another, and another. One with Mencius, another with Lao Tzu, and yet another with Zhuang Zi. I knew it was Grandfather.

I sought the source of which the paper seemed to be coming from, and spotted a single page, stuck under the rusty metal gate. Pushing through the rough doors, and tumbling through gravel roads, I found... a single paper crane. Upon seeing this, excitement turned into desperation. Was the vision I thought I felt simply a mirage based off of my own selfish yearnings? I paused, looking down at the yellowed cranes, their beaks held pompously up high, waiting for a miracle. Before turning back, my feet already torn by bending roads and sidewalks, I heard a series of soft flutters, that seemed to grow louder with every step I took in the other direction. Agitated, I swiftly swung my head back, only to be shocked by what seemed to be a thousand paper cranes fluttering their wings, their elegant outlines were inscribed with sayings and principles. I stuck out my hand to feel the wind that was causing this phenomenon and found there was none. Dismissing this as just another illusion my mind used to deceive me, and rid my grieving, I continued to walk. However, you could say wishful thinking got ahold of me. I uttered one wish, recalling the legends and myths that my grandfather told me when I was younger, as his callused but gentle hands guiding me as I bent origami paper in crisp folds, if you make a thousand paper cranes, your wish will come true. I pointed my eyes down at my feet, small salty drops dripping on my bare feet “I wish I could see my grandfather again”.

I stared at the origami cranes, now lifeless, and waited for one, two minutes. Exasperated, I sighed and continued my shameful journey home, what was I doing, wasting my time here wishing on childish myths instead of in the funeral home grieving for my grandfather? I peeked back, “Just one more time to make sure.”, I lied, and found that the paper cranes were gone, replaced by one lone figure, stumbling towards me, cane in hand.

“Ming-Chuen! Grandpa bought you your favorite candy!”, the clacking of the wooden cane stopped, and I choked out a sob. Turning back and looking and my grandfather in his tattered clothes, I shakily took one. “What are you doing out here with only a dress on! You’re going to catch a cold. Look, you're already shaking!”, Grandfather waved his finger at me, his other hand searching for hard candy in his pocket. I clasped my hand over my mouth, tears pouring out of my eyes, as I looked at that familiar face, grinning with a missing tooth, hand reaching towards me with a plastic wrapped hard candy. This time, I could feel his exuberant spirit. I rubbed my eyes, puffy from crying, and looked at his wrinkled ones, squinted and smiling “Grandpa, can you tell me about Mencius?”

“Ming-Chuen!”, I opened my eyes, vision blurry as I pushed my numb torso off the hard dirt ground. Instead of my smiling grandfather, I saw Mother looking back at me, her forehead creasing with lines of worry. As if she knew what I was thinking, knew what I saw, my mother’s eyes softened, a hint of melancholy and longing flashing across just for a moment. She led my limp body towards the car, my brother already asleep inside. As if the child inside me woke up, I grasped onto her robe, my hot and salty tears wetting her nape.

Back home, I came across that familiar yet mysterious study, its only inhabitants now were a stack of my grandfather's manuscripts, untouched and unrestricted. I remember moving my fingers through the yellow-stained pages every night. Gradually, I understood why he forbade me from reading them. In those books was his own story—he’d been blacklisted for intellectualism during the Cultural Revolution, imprisoned in a labor camp, and returned to his wife and children five years later, silent about his trauma.

It was then that I realized: the bond between my grandfather and me rests on the countless times our identities have been denied by individuals and institutions. The significance of our reading sessions—of the Buddhicarita—became clear. For my grandfather, theory was a means to understand and bestow meaning onto life’s sufferings, and he was on a mission to cure me of my otherness with the Buddhicarita’s core themes.

As I reflect on my relationship with my grandfather, I think about the times he smiled with pride when I challenged his arguments. There was no need to plant any seeds of wisdom in me. My grandfather knew that they were already there—all they needed was some nurturing and the right conditions to bloom. I flipped towards the last page, tears welling in my eyes as I recall my last moments with him, even if they were an illusion. There, nestled in the tattered cover, was a small paper crane.