“It means she can’t do all the things she used to do, like cook or even walk across the room without someone helping her. The doctor says that will take a toll on her memory, too, if she can’t do things herself. Ever since she stopped writing, it’s like she’s fading faster and faster, and there’s nothing we can do about it.” It was rare that I could speak so freely in Chinese. Somehow it felt easier with her, knowing her responses would be slow and careful, that there was already a gap in our communication that would not be made worse if I couldn’t find the right phrase. “But for now, I am grateful to have more time with her.”

“You really love her,” she said, the first complete sentence I understood.

I nodded.

“It’s weird,” I said. “Sometimes she will have these bursts of clarity. But there hasn’t been one in a while. And I wonder—” I paused. It was my first time voicing this out loud. “I wonder if I’ve already had my last conversation with her.”

She said something else, except this time I did not understand a word. She took out her phone. It was a huge one. She spoke into it then squinted her eyes at the screen. She showed the words to me.

“Can you send it to me?” I asked sheepishly. Whatever app she had used translated her Shanghainese into characters on the screen, though I could barely read them. Once they were on a message in my phone, I could copy it into my translation app. I tried to ignore all of the data I knew I was sharing just to be able to communicate with a family member.

Your grandmother tried many times to give people a place they could call home. I think she finally succeeded with you. You do not have the same drifting as your father.

In truth, during that meeting, I did not understand her words well at all, even after they were translated into English. But afterward, looking through my translation history again, I understand. Both my father and Louise had gone to Meng. In them, Meng saw people unmoored. Grandmother had been unable to offer Meng a home, to give my father the care he needed. But she had given me a cohesive story, something that made me firm in who I am. I am her granddaughter, and I come from a long line of pencil makers. She is the most resilient person I’ve ever known. I can only hope I learned that from her, too.

Then, to my surprise, Meng grabbed my wrist. I let her turn it and roll up my sleeve. She traced my phoenix, dark from where Louise’s pencil heart still ran through my blood. She rolled up her sleeve and showed me her scar. It was even more defined than grandmother’s.