I grew up calling my grandmother “Obaachan” since the day I first learned how to say it. Obaachan means Grandma in Japanese. Obaachan used to live near me; we lived in New York until she and my grandpa moved back to Japan when I was six. My childhood was spent in her blooming garden and savoring her cooking. My teenage years were spent a little differently; I enjoyed her garden on her terrace in her apartment near Kobe, and she still cooked for us when we stayed over. In 2022, the first time we were able to visit in four years, our time was spent in another way. She forgot how to cook for us but still maintained her garden. Again, when we visited in the winter of 2023 the following year, more things she forgot, and we ate out the whole time. The past winter, again, we came to see her. This time, she wasn’t in her apartment but in a nursing home. We ate out and didn’t tend to her garden.
To remember is a gift. I remember her as my Obaachan, and soon, she will forget me. I look to her archives to remember her more. I see a 12-year-old girl in a kimono staring back at me. I make this work to get to know her better than just Obaachan. I meditate on the past and the present and reflect on change and memory by intertwining the two.
