Dear July,

Thank you for your letter. I liked reading it very much. It feels distant to write to each other like this. I feel alone in my thoughts. Yet, at the same time, I am comforted by the distance. I like the freedom in this quiet way of talking.

It has been quite strange in Singapore too. We usually see quite a bit of rain throughout July. But this time around, the rain came down heavy at the beginning of the month and then, in the two weeks since, it has been hot and humid. Well, more than usual anyway. I miss the rain dearly.

To me, July is a special month. Today, the 25th, is also a special day.

My grandmother died 10 years ago today. She was the last of my grandparents and the one with whom I was closest. She cared for me when my parents were at work during the day, every day, until I was four years old. In the morning, she brought me to the sports stadium near her house to exercise with her friends. In the afternoon, she cooked me lunch with rice and fish—always fish—so that I could swim faster, she said. In the evening, she sang Chinese songs while we slept on her bed waiting for my parents to pick me up. On my first day of school, I realized I like being friends with grandmothers more than grandchildren. On the day of my first swimming competition, I didn't win any medals—I hate fish now. On the day she died, I slept on her bed again, for the first time in years, alone.

I have a library full of my grandmother’s stories inside my head. For a long time now, I have been trying to figure out how to write them. To be honest, I don’t know if I am allowed to do that. Her story is hers, after all. They are not really mine to tell. Her story is also my mother’s. Again, not really mine. But, among all those stories, there must be one that belongs to me, right? Maybe one day I will find out which.

A part of me thinks that perhaps my desire to understand my grandmother is a desire to understand my mother as well. Perhaps if I could understand my mother as a daughter, then I can understand my mother as a mother. Perhaps this is why I seek out mothers and grandmothers in stories I read, the films I watch, and the long, boring academic papers I write. If I could just analyze these characters and see into their lives, I could also peer into my mother’s world. Is this invasive, you think? To try to psychoanalyze her? Or cowardly to try find answers somewhere else instead of just asking her?

Someday, I might have to write her a letter.

‍

Your friend,

Phoebe