You awake before Grandmother—this is rare for someone like you. Someone who, back home—where you are when you’re not here—must slap the snooze button at least 3 times before rolling out of bed, just in time to be late, but not too late. But today is Grandmother’s birthday. 

You walk outside of the creaky neighborhood doors with cement arches covered in beautiful, but foreign calligraphy. You once knew what they said. Not anymore. The morning fog had just begun to trickle in; people, scooters, cars, bikers and buses are already bustling. You walk to the street market to buy Grandmother’s birthday breakfast. The regular diminutive woman with salt-and-pepper hair and jack-o-lantern teeth greets you at her booth. You realize you don’t know what Grandmother likes to eat. Grandmother had always been the one to wake before dawn to buy your favorite breakfast from the street market. You point at your favorite—the breakfast that you had eaten since you came here as a kid—fried dough and hot soymilk. The breakfast Grandmother can no longer buy because she can’t walk for long without her badly cracked heels bleeding profusely. 

The lady nods and begins saying something to you while packaging the food. You can’t understand much—just your Grandmother’s name and “daughter.” You wish that you knew your native tongue better. The language that once felt like home no longer rolls off your tongue like butter. You would say something witty to make her smile if you were somewhere or someone else, but you are limited in this language. Instead, you nod. 

You hand her a couple of paper bills, but she gently pushes your hand away. She says your Grandmother’s name again. You have forgotten that your Grandmother is somewhat of a celebrity mah-jongg champion in this neighborhood. Xie xie, you say before you walk back to Grandmother’s home with the newly claimed breakfast. Thank you. 

When you arrive at your Grandmother’s home, she is walking on her toes toward the kitchen to prepare breakfast. You set the breakfast of fried dough and hot soymilk down, tell Grandmother to sit down, and wish her a happy birthday. She smiles wide, ripples of skin forming next to the corners of her dry lips. 

///

Aya Aya, Grandmother yelps. She says your full name—the name your parents gave you, the name you hated because it was the name people laughed at, the name people asked how to pronounce before butchering it into something unrecognizable. You’ve forgotten how it sounds pronounced correctly. You have hidden your name from everyone, locked it away in a keyless safe. You fear that your real name reveals something vulnerable about you. You’re not sure what though. 

You do not think much of it now, but later on the plane—when the world is dark—you will wonder if this is the last time you hear your real name coming from her mouth, coming from anyone’s mouth. You will wonder if this is the last birthday you will spend with her together. 

Grandmother has spilled the soymilk onto the table. You run to clean it up before Grandmother gets up. Her combination of bloody heels and a bad back is not a good one. You remember the years when you used to be the one who spilled things and Grandmother cleaned them up. You lift Grandmother from the chair by her armpits and set her skinny frame on the couch so that you can clean the spill. 

///

The room balloons with summer heat, the news playing in the background. Contrast here and there. Contrast now and then. You have already said goodbye. Teary-eyed, Grandmother places her paper-thin hand on yours. You should say, ming nian jian. See you next year. Say it like an oath. Say it like it will keep her here, like it will keep you here. Say it like they are your last words. It is all you can say yet it is never enough.

The taxi driver outside is yelling, kuai kuai kuai, the staccato of his voice reflecting his urgency. The traffic is bad today. The traffic is bad always. 

You squeeze Grandmother’s hand and walk outside. You spot the faded blue taxi awaiting you. It is the first time you have seen the sky this clear and blue. It is normally grey and foggy. Something about pollution, though you are not sure if that is just something people say to make this place seem less than it is. You don’t care about the so-called pollution, though. Either way, you inhale the air deep inside your lungs and hold it there for as long as you can. The longer you hold your breath the longer this city will belong to you. The longer you hold your breath the longer this city will be with you.  

Eventually, the pressure building inside your chest forces you to let go, to exhale this city out of your lungs. You will never be able to hold on to this city for as long as you want to. You look back and see Grandmother waving, standing like you told her not to. You remember the butterflies back home and how they migrate west in the winter but return in the summer. Like the butterflies, you will leave. You will return. 

Inside the taxi, you open your backpack to a pack of bao buns made by Grandmother. Still hot and steamy, you break one in half and place it in your mouth—pure bliss. She makes these for you every year, and yet the taste always takes you by surprise.