Editor’s note: Like many young Chinese born in the 1990s, photographer Wu Wei was raised by her grandpa and grandma, who passed away in 2013 and 2018, respectively, in Chengdu, capital of China’s southwestern Sichuan province. To memorialize them, in 2023, Wu held an exhibition of old photos and keepsakes in Beijing, titled “A Life of Fen and Fang,” and published the book “I Was Raised by My Grandparents.” Below is an excerpt from her book.

I was on the Beijing subway when I got the news that my grandma had passed away. A video call came in from my dad. When I answered, it was my mom, and she struggled to choke out the words: “Wei, your grandma is gone.” Just then, the subway PA system announced that I was arriving at Huixin Xijie Nankou Station, where I planned to get off and transfer to Line 10.

I shouted repeatedly into the phone: “Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!” Why? Why, when my grandma passed away, did I keep calling for my mom? Maybe because I needed to remind her that even though she had lost her mother, she was still my mother. And maybe I needed to remind myself that even though I had lost my grandma, I still had my mom. So I kept calling her name, as if this could bring something back.

Yesterday, I again found myself changing trains at Huixin Xijie Nankou Station. I suddenly felt terrified that my phone might ring again.

In the days before I got that call, I had been racking my brains to come up with a script for a story taking place on a subway, searching everywhere for some material I could use. Life, you truly are a genius — you’re the best scriptwriter in the world.

I stepped off the subway car and crouched in a corner by the wall. My dad said, “Your grandma can still hear you — call out to her.” So I started calling, “Grandma.” Then I began to cry. I instinctively tilted my phone camera up toward the ceiling, then began sobbing uncontrollably. The station was noisy. My grandma wouldn’t have heard me crying. But could she hear me call her name?

It was after 10 o’clock at night, and there were still a lot of people walking across the subway platform. I suddenly thought of those “girl having a complete down on the platform” stories you hear from bystanders and thought, “Oh, that’s me.” Suddenly, I stood up. I had to get home.

Back in my room, I lit a candle and some incense. I picked up my phone and made two desperate calls for help. I could barely speak, but when I talked to my cousin Zhiwei, I managed to force out the words, “I’m OK.” She responded, “Like hell you are!” I repeated, “I’m fine.” She said, “There’s no way that’s true.” And then she told me, “Don’t hold it in, don’t bottle it up — if it’s real, let it out.” Those words gave me absolute permission to cry however I needed to. And after a good cry, I felt a little better. Later, when I got my cousin Caomei on the line, she called out my name — just like I had called my mom’s.

Hearing her call my name snapped me back to my senses. I booked my flight ticket home, arranged a car to the airport, packed my things, showered, and went to bed. Some relatives called to check if I was OK. By then, I was already in the shower listening to the Diamond Sutra (Editor’s note: a popular Mahayana Buddhist text), back to being the kind of person who could casually crack jokes and make everyone laugh.

I asked my friend Deng, “What’s the best thing I could do for my grandma right now?” Deng replied: “Speak to her quietly in your heart. She loves you so much, and you love her so much — she can hear everything. Souls are connected; they can cross the distance of time and space.” So I lay in bed and tried to talk to Grandma. I couldn’t talk — I could only cry. But I obediently kept trying. I found myself crying and talking at the same time, my voice clear as a jumble of words spilled out of me:

Grandma, thank you for raising me.
Grandma, you’ve lived this life so well.
Grandma, I’ll take good care of myself, and everyone else, too.
Grandma, go with confidence, don’t worry or hesitate.
Grandma, go in peace, walk toward the light.

Crying as I spoke, I eventually fell asleep.

Early the next morning, on my way to my boarding gate, I saw a blue stuffed rabbit in a store — it was large, with long arms and legs, and a small head. I have a ritual of buying myself a new stuffed animal after every exhibition I put on, naming it after the location of the show. As I’d just held an exhibition in the Xishuangbanna Dai Autonomous Prefecture (in the southwestern Yunnan province), I decided to call it “Na.” However, when I saw the price tag on the rabbit, I thought, “Forget it” — it was too expensive. I was about to put it back when it spoke to me: “You’ve already given me a name. You can’t possibly let someone else buy me now.”

I decided to keep it, and I later needed this blue rabbit to help me with three things:

First, it was so cute that anyone with a heart smiled at me when they saw me holding it. I needed those tiny moments of kindness from strangers to pull me out of my private grief. I had to remind myself that my sadness is a tiny one — planes will still fly, people will still go on living, the world will still turn. I can’t let myself sink too deep into sorrow.

Second, I needed distractions. I needed a toy that I could hold in my hands, with long ears I could tug, long arms and legs I could wave, little eyes I could poke.

Third, if I ended up having another big cry on the plane, I’d need something human-shaped to hug. I couldn’t very well cling to the tray table and sob.

I’m grateful to the young man in the seat next to mine on the flight home. He didn’t ask a single question during the whole flight. As I clung to the rabbit and wailed hysterically, he asked the flight attendant for some tissues and slipped them into my hand. When I was done crying, we played with the rabbit together.

The car pulled up in front of my family’s home, and I saw the funeral wreaths outside. That day, every character on those wreaths hit me hard. I put the rabbit down. The car door opened, and I was suddenly an adult — an adult who won’t tire when everyone else is exhausted, who won’t cry when everyone else is in tears, who can hold it together when everyone else has fallen apart. But I didn’t want to be an adult. “Wu Wei, what happened to you? You suddenly seem so much older,” my aunt said upon seeing me. But in this world, nothing happens suddenly — nothing except death. Life takes a long time to unfold; death happens in an instant.

During the funeral, there were many little rules and rituals to observe. Though we muttered under our breath about superstition, we still followed them to the letter. Our belief came from our love. As we let go of Grandma and relinquished her to heaven and earth, we had no idea how we should act, so we chose to believe it all. On the way to the funeral home, I told my brother-in-law: “Growing up is terrible. When Grandpa passed, all I had to do was cry. Now, besides crying, I’m also responsible for everything else.”

This is how I ended my eulogy: “I think everyone here feels the same as I do — so very, very reluctant to let her go. I have never met anyone who was such a wonderful wife, teacher, aunt, mother, or grandmother. So today, I ask that everyone here be very, very willing to let her go — willing to believe she has gone to a world free of pain and filled with joy. Willing to believe that Grandpa has already set up the Chinese checkers board, lit the stove, and gotten the game console ready; that they’re about to embark on a new journey together. Let us temper our grief, accept this change, and carry forward the diligence, optimism, and resilience Grandma taught us as we continue living happy, healthy, and mutually supportive lives. Let us keep her passion for life, her reverence for nature, her steadfastness in faith, and her practice of love in action. Let us stand here together, brave and serene, and give her a proper send-off on her final journey. Goodbye, Mrs. Wen Meifen. Goodbye, Grandma.”

After the ceremony, I fell apart. I curled up on Grandma’s bed, clutching the safety rail, and cried for hours. In the final months of her life, I had avoided her for fear that seeing her decline would make me sad. But now that I can’t see her anymore, I’m still sad. Why is life so hard? You see things that cause you pain; not seeing them also causes you pain. There’s no avoiding the pain.

Later, I went looking for that blue rabbit I bought at the airport. I searched everywhere but couldn’t find it — it must have run off hand in hand with my childhood. I’ve lost the blue rabbit, lost my grandpa, lost my grandma, lost my childhood. But that doesn’t mean they never existed. My grandparents raised me with love; as I carry their love forward, it will continue to shape me until I become love itself.

My grandmother, Wen Meifen, completed her sweet life with grace. Please join us in sending her our blessings. Grandma, you lived life to the fullest, even though it wasn’t without hardship. Now that you’re a heavenly fairy, go ahead and enjoy yourself to the fullest.

This article, translated by Carrie Davies, is an excerpt from “I Was Raised by My Grandparents,” published by CITIC Press in October 2023. It is republished here with permission.

Visuals: Ding Yining; editors: Wang Juyi and Hao Qibao.

(Header image: Pages within “I Was Raised by My Grandparents.” From the publisher)