Author: Not Written
On Kaohsiung afternoons, sunlight filters through the iron window grilles and paints a grid across the floor. Grandma Guizhi always sits on the living-room sofa, sorting through the “treasure” clothes she has just bought, while calling out, “Mei-jin! Come look at the new jacket Grandma bought. Wear it to dance tomorrow, won’t it be great!” Her wardrobe is always stuffed to the point of bursting. Some clothes can’t even fit inside anymore, powder-blue knitted sweaters, long dresses with bows, and dance shoes glittering with silver sequins occupy nearly half of her room.
When I was little, what I looked forward to most was returning to Kaohsiung for Lunar New Year. Grandma would start preparing long in advance. The small fish at the market had to be the freshest; the brown rice had to be soaked for a full three hours so that the porridge would reach the perfect texture. The first day of the New Year was the day we returned home to Kaohsiung. The moment we stepped through the door, we could hear her loudly calling the whole family to eat, her voice booming enough to startle the neighbours: “Eat quickly! It won’t taste good once it’s cold!”
For the next seven days, the dining table was always filled with the same dishes; rich braised pork and shrimp rolls fried to a golden colour. By the end, everyone would secretly frown from eating so much, but no one dared to complain, because Grandma would glare and say, “Then next time I won’t cook! You still complain even when you’re eating!” Grandma’s temper was just like Kaohsiung’s summer; it could change in an instant.
Grandma could raise her voice and scold someone for half an hour over the smallest things, yet at other times she would secretly slip me a hundred dollars and whisper, “Grandma’s giving this to you quietly, don’t tell your mom.” She loved dancing the most. A few times, she went out to play mahjong with friends and didn’t return until the middle of the night. The aunts were so anxious they kept calling everywhere to look for her, but she was completely unconcerned. When she finally came home, she laughed and said, “Why are you all so nervous? I said I’d be back later, didn’t I?” That scene, that volume, is something I will never forget.
Then, two or three years ago, a car accident turned everything upside down. In the hospital, the Grandma who once had such a powerful voice lay quietly in bed. When her coma scale was at 3, my mother and aunts rushed down to Kaohsiung, crying so hard outside the emergency room that they could barely stand. Thankfully, heaven showed mercy. After she miraculously woke up, she looked at me and asked, “Who are you?” In that moment, I realized that the Grandma who remembered my love for small-fish porridge seemed to have lost a part of her memory.
Now Grandma has moved to Taipei to live with us. She seems very different from before, yet also strangely the same, just a little more stubborn, and sometimes she goes out without locking the door. She still loves to talk, her voice still loud enough to shake my ears. Sometimes she speaks incoherently, like saying “buy clothes” when she means “eat,” but every morning she still tirelessly asks me, “Have you eaten enough? Are you cold?” At times I really do feel irritated, yet I feel ashamed of my impatience because the fact that she can still stand in front of me is already a miracle.
When the weather is good, I hold Grandma’s arm and take her for walks around the neighbourhood. She says many things that have no beginning or end, many things she can no longer remember clearly, but that doting love she has for her grandchild has never changed. Just like the brightly coloured clothes she always loves to wear, and the way she always praises herself, white skin, good figure. No matter how many storms she has weathered, she is still my Grandma Guizhi. With her voice, her temper, and the fragrance of her porridge, she has become a portrait in my heart that will never fade.
高雄的午后，陽光透過鐵窗在地板上畫出格子，桂枝阿嬤總是坐在客廳的沙發上，一邊整理
新淘到的寶貝衣服們，一邊喊：「美金（台）！來看看阿嬤新買的外套，明天跳舞穿嘟嘟啊賀
（台）！」她的衣櫃永遠塞到快爆炸，有些還直接不塞了，粉藍色針織衫、帶蝴蝶結的長裙，還
有閃著銀片的舞鞋，占了她房間整整一半的空間。
小時候，最期待的就是過年回高雄。阿嬤從久久之前就開始忙，市場裡的小魚仔要挑最鮮的
，糙米泡足三個小時，熬出來的粥才能達到最佳口感。初一，是我們回家高雄的日子，一進門
就能聽到她高聲喊我們一家吃飯，嗓門大得能驚嚇到隔壁鄰居：「快吃！冷了就不好吃了！」
接下來的七天，餐桌上永遠是那幾道菜——油膩的焢肉、炸得金黃的蝦卷，雖然吃到後來大家
都會偷偷皺眉，但沒人敢說，因為阿嬤會瞪著眼睛說：「要不然我下次不煮了，你們吃還嫌！」
阿嬤的脾氣就像高雄的夏天，說變就變。
阿嬤常常因為小事就可以拉高嗓門罵了半小時，有時卻偷偷塞給我一百塊：「阿嬤偷偷給你的
，別告訴你媽。」她最愛跳舞，有幾次和朋友去打麻將，搓到半夜才回家，阿姨們都焦急得打電
話到處找，她卻渾然不覺，回來還笑：「你們緊張什麼？？就等等就回來了哼？」當時那場景，
那分貝，我永遠都記得。
畫風一轉，兩三年前的那場車禍，把一切都打亂了。醫院裡，曾經聲音洪亮的阿嬤靜靜躺著，
昏迷指數3的時候，媽媽和阿姨們極下高雄，在急診室外哭得直不起腰，焦急萬分。好險，老天
慈悲，奇蹟般醒來後，她看見我卻問：「你是誰？」那一刻，我才知道，那個記得我愛吃小魚仔
粥的阿嬤，好像丟了一部分記憶。
現在阿嬤搬到台北和我們住，她好像和從前大不相同，卻好像什麼都一樣，只是時常沒有鎖
門就跑出門去，好像變得更固執了一些。她還是很愛講話，嗓門依舊大得能震動耳膜，雖然有
時會語無倫次，比如把「吃飯」說成「買衣服」，但每天早上依舊會不厭其煩的問我：「有沒有吃
飽？會不會冷？」，有時的確會感覺到有些煩躁，我卻會為我的不耐煩感到慚愧，畢竟她還能
站在我面前已是奇蹟。
天氣好的時候，我會扶著阿嬤在社區散步，她會說著很多沒頭沒尾、聽不懂的話，還有很多
事情她記不清了，但那份寵孫子的心，卻從來沒變過。就像她永遠愛穿的亮色系衣服，永遠會
自己誇獎自己：皮膚白、身材好，總之，不管經歷多少風雨，依舊是我的桂枝阿嬤，用她的聲
音、她的脾氣、她的粥香，在我心中，有一張永遠不會褪色的人像畫。