The Greatest Distance

It’s been a long time that I didn’t talk to my great grandfather. He’s already 97 years old. He lives in Mioli. Due to busy school work and long traveling time, I seldom visit him. Last time we talk was in his 97^th birthday dinner last December. He always wears a hat to keep his head warm. Years of time carved wrinkles all over his face. His eyes remain sharp even they are small and barely can see. He loves to seat in his rocking chair in the afternoon and watch Taiwanese folk opera with my great grandmother. When I was little, my great grandfather used to take me around, walking along on the country road and introduce the history of the buildings. Born in the Japanese colonial period, he witnessed lots of things. He remember the Japanese ruling; though most people stereotypically consider Japanese are vicious, he did not tell me what they’d done bad but what they’d done good. They constructed many modern infrastructures and sanitation, making the death rate rapidly decrease. He also remembered the day when the KMT came to Taiwan, everyone excitedly cheered for their arrival and soon became disappointed by their corruption. My great grandfather told me so many stories that I can’t exactly remember all of them.

Yet, last time we visit him, he couldn’t remember who I am. He couldn’t recognize me, nor my sister, nor my mother, nor any other relatives. When I stood right in front of him, I only felt the farthest distance –– that I missed someone so much but he couldn’t know.