I dropped off the groceries, searching for her shadow.
Not in the living room. Not in the study.
I didn’t see her hiding behind the workbench in the garage either.
I called out her name.
Soon enough, I spotted her messy gray hair and worn-out winter coat in the garden.
It was thirty-six degrees outside—nowhere near a winter’s chill. Yet, she couldn’t give up on her favorite puffer jacket. Neither could she give up on her tomatoes in the garden.
I squatted next to her, watching as she gingerly picked at the tomatoes.
"Grandma, they’re not ripe yet."
"Oh, is that so?" Confusion was written across her face as she lifted her chin, her eyes resting carefully on me. She was searching for signs of familiarity. I wasn’t sure she recognized me.
"Nope, they’re not... Do you really want them for dinner?"
"I wanted to make some tomato soup..."
"What kind?"
"The kind with eggs in it. I sprinkle a bit of salt at the end. It always tastes really good. That’s what Neko likes."
I rubbed my nose, trying to hold back a sneeze. Smiling, I helped her hold onto the tomatoes.
"Grandma... I’m so touched. You still remember what Neko likes."
"Of course I do..."
"Grandma... who’s your favorite grandkid?"
"My favorite?"
"Yes... out of all the grandkids you have. Be honest with me—who is your favorite?"
"I can’t have favorites... You know that. A grandmother has to love all her grandkids equally."
"Is that so?" I wasn’t ready to give up. "You really don’t have a favorite? I think you like Akari the most."
She was quiet for a moment before answering. "Why would you say that?"
"You always look so happy when Akari comes home from college. I never see you smile like that when you see me..."
"Silly girl..." She raised a brow at me. There was another brief hesitation before she spoke again. "I have no favorites. I just know Akari plays too many video games. I always wonder how he’s doing. If he’s eating well... or getting enough sleep..."
"I’m pretty sure he is."
"Why doesn’t he talk to me, though?"
"Because he’s a boy, Grandma. Boys don’t usually visit home often... nor do they call you for no reason..."
"I miss him, though."
"Ahaha... I see... So he does hold an important spot in your heart..."
"I already said it... I don’t have favorites..."
I watched as she buried her face in the tomato bush. I remembered how she always talked about Akari—the only boy out of her nine grandkids. When she talked about him, her eyes would sparkle. When he finally came home that one summer and offered to take her for a walk in the park, she wouldn’t stop talking about it for months.
Did you know? Akari offered to walk with me in the park? He has never done that before... He’s all grown up now. He knows how to spend time with his grandma.
How about all those times I took you out for dinner, Grandma? How come I don’t get any praise?
I protested out of bitterness.
I never said I wasn’t happy when you took me out to dinner... Although that last hibachi place we went to... the food was horrible...
I shook my head, half frowning and half laughing. Deep down, I knew Grandma played favorites. And unsurprisingly, her favorite was Akari.
But I wasn’t really bitter, to be honest. I knew she loved me, too. I didn’t need to ask for more. But I did enjoy teasing her every now and then.
When she finally pulled a tiny tomato hidden deep in the bush, she grinned with pride.
"Here... here..."
"This one is green, Grandma... You can’t eat this."
"Oh, but Neko likes it..."
"Neko doesn’t like unripe tomatoes..."
"But she likes all things green..."
"..."
I opened my mouth, but the trigger to my past memories had already been pulled. I felt myself being dragged back. Involuntarily, I closed my eyes. Then, bits and pieces of my childhood resurfaced.
It was the first day of first grade. I came home, dragging my feet, mud on my face. My parents were too busy to ask what had happened. But Grandma noticed.
She pulled me aside and started wiping my face with a wet towel.
In between wipes, she asked me who did it.
I stayed silent, but tears rolled down my cheeks.
"Those rascals..." she muttered under her breath. I heard the anger in her voice. Then, she gave me a clean shirt to change into.
I watched as she slowly removed the green hairband that held my braids together.
"They said the color of the hairband was hideous..." I finally whimpered.
A group of girls had cornered me after school, demanding that I give them my brand-new colored pencils. I told them no, then one of them pulled my hair. She said my hairband was the ugliest green she had ever seen. She pulled so hard, I fell face-first into a puddle of mud.
I was drowning in their cruel laughter while trying to get back up. Nobody came to my rescue. They all just watched.
That night, I hid under my bedsheets, embarrassed. My parents had always told me to make lots of friends, yet I had failed so miserably on the very first day of school.
The interesting thing was—and I hadn’t noticed it until now—Grandma started walking me to school from that day on.
Now that I think of it, she always wore a green jacket. She would wave at me at the school gate with a green handkerchief. She would keep waving until I turned the corner and walked into my classroom.
The green jacket and the handkerchief—something so simple and plain—yet a strong declaration of her love for me. She stood behind me, unwavering.
I blinked, returning to reality. I watched as she wiped the mud off her knees and tried to stand. She stumbled a little, but I held onto her tiny frame.
Since when did she only reach my shoulders?
Since when had her face become covered in wrinkles I could no longer count?
She carefully placed the green tomato in my palm, letting me feel the weight of something so small yet so heavy.
"You remember..." I whispered.
She leaned in, a spark in her eyes. "Of course... of course I remember..."
"You remember the green hairband..."
"I remember..."
"You remember me?"
She leaned even closer, squinting. "You look very familiar..."
"I am Neko... Do you remember?"
"Ah... Of course, of course I remember... Dear Neko..." Her palm gently pressed against my left cheek.
And I, too, remember you, Grandma.