Q

Monday morning I woke up missing having nowhere to go.

I pack hastily but efficiently: I’ve gotten good at that, it is a byproduct of when home constantly changes its shape and meaning.

That morning it was just me and my popo. Her daily routine has a lithographic space within mine. I recognize the shift in her breathing as she stirs awake, the soft jangle of jade and silver against her wrist when she turns down the covers, the notes of caffeine from her daily brew.

In this pocket of time I’ve learnt when to cut across rooms and how long I have to fumble for clothes, masking the squeak of my wardrobe door under a gurgle of boiling water as she prepares her coffee. I’ve developed the skills of one-man espionage, learning her habits so well I can go virtually unnoticed by her in a modestly sized apartment if I wanted to.

And I wanted to. I like leaving alone.

In my old house, I rose first on weekdays and left before anyone did. Back then my route didn’t take me anywhere near the rest of my family. Those mornings were mine, and I loved it. I padded stealthily around taking in everything in vivid detail: my own thoughts, the temperature, and the furniture that seem to take on a larger purpose of its own when still unused before the day begins.

Those were the easy times alone I’d hoard every day before the madness of school, where it was difficult even to portion out enough attention for each friend, much less your self.

When I moved in with my popo, these times got harder, but I managed to carve them out all the same.

That morning, I managed to. But at the door, wholly ready, my espionage-level understanding of my grandma backfired. If I were to slip out through the gates without a word, trimming off the fat of fuss and hassle from her I so meticulously avoided, I knew exactly what would happen.

Popo, in all her octogeneriac vigor, would flit from room to room, peering in for my familiar shape sprawled across the bed or on the couch jabbing away at my phone. That image broke my heart.

Buoyed by sudden courage/conscience, I swallowed the sour of selfishness and yelled out a goodbye, hoping to make my way far enough before she had time to accost me with additional interrogation (去哪里？为什么这么快要回去了？婆婆要跟你去吃饭勒！)/reminders for general well-being (要带冷衣！那把雨伞！吃早餐先!)

I have, of course, underestimated my popo’s moxie when motivated by concern for grandkids. At an almost inconceivable speed she was at the door, the whole time screeching for me to wait up.

The interrogation/reminders, as fully expected, came in squalls.

Escaping this takes two parts dismissiveness, a part of firmness, and a final whisk of well-timed smiles and nods and “orh!”s. With that I took off, bearing the fuss, turning back to wave at her/wave her off. Both.

My popo shrinks perceptibly but strains to amplify her self in her desperation to get me to slow down. Clutching at the steel gates her head yearns towards my direction, in her typical soprano she repeatedly shrieks 几时回来？

Not exactly the sight I want to see just as I move out for the semester.

I don’t know how to explain to her that my reluctance to answer that: when I’ll be home, is not just a careless disregard of her concern. I don’t want to answer her because it’ll be awhile until I do, and it pains me a lot more than it does for her to be reminded of that.