I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.

If I’d stayed on at the Big Why, I’d have just passed my 8th anniversary. 8 years would’ve be a damn long time, longer than any monogomous relationship I’ve had, not that I’d had a polygamous one.

My brother called yesterday. In between a Skype video call mostly filled with his three kids getting all excited and yelling Hello! Gugu over and over and laughing at the screen, he told me my maternal grandfather passed away a few days ago. It was a little weird, that it was my brother casually mentioning it, I’d have expected my mom or something to break news like that to me. I’d also expected them to have told me earlier, but then again, I’m not sure if the outcome would’ve been different.

My grandfather had been sick for a while, and he was probably something like what, 96 or 97, and anyone could’ve expected the outcome, especially since the writing was on the wall for more than a few years. I didn’t know him very well even though as a child I saw him more often than most of my uncles, aunts and cousins. I think he was born in Canton, and he moved to Singapore maybe in his twenties. I think he worked for the British in the war.

What I know about him is that he was a terribly charismatic man. Not terribly well built, nor good looking, though to be fair I only knew him when he was pretty old and withered, but he was definitely a charmer. So charming he had three wives. He spoke English with an old-world charm that you don’t really hear anymore, with remnants of a British education, though I’ve no idea where or when he was educated. And while I don’t think any of his kids inherited all of his charm, most of them inherited his facial structure. And in one of my uncles, the exact same smile. That uncle of mine has my grandmother’s sad eyes and my grandfather’s most vibrant smile. It’s so strange, because when I hang out with my cousin (and that’s not often) he smiles the exact same smile and it’s highly disarming.

When I was a kid I used to spend my days at my maternal grandmother’s home. She shared it with the more senior grandmother. I don’t know how they managed to live with each other for all those years, but women then were a different breed. Off and on my grandfather would show up to pay them a visit, and I suppose I never knew much better to realise that it was odd that (1) I had so many grandmothers (2) my grandfather didn’t live there.

While my dad’s dad smelled of Camels and had a honeyed voice and spoke in smooth sentences, my mom’s dad smelled of pipe tobacco and spoke in a thin voice, and his speaking style was staccato. While my dad’s dad had an accent that whiffed of Straits Chinese and a local education, my mom’s dad spoke his English like he was taught by the British and they forgot to teach him Singlish. His British education also gave him a distance that was probably becoming for the time, so I can’t say he was an outwardly affectionate man. Though he’d take the time to chat with me and give me little trinkets when he remembered.

That was more than 20 years ago. I don’t think I saw my grandfather in the last few years. We used to visit him at Chinese New Year, but I usually didn’t get to speak to him beyond the obligatory greeting. We didn’t even visit in the last few years.

I wonder whether his life turned out in any way what he expected. If any part of it was something he wanted, or the way he planned. I wonder if he ever knew what he wanted.

It doesn’t matter, I guess. At some point, most things don’t.