Grandma waited fifty years for a grave. My mother was illiterate and was forced to death by a divorce agreement. I sat in front of the sewing machine and sewed cheongsam for twenty years, and saved an iron box of "IOUs" - the days he was away, I sewed them into the fabric.
Later he stood up from his wheelchair. He said: "If such a day comes, you don't have to leave. I will leave."
I waited for him for twenty-three nights, and he replaced the glass bottle that I had been afraid of my whole life. I have saved up his IOUs all my life. But I don't hate it anymore. I don't love it anymore either. It's not forgiveness, it's—the energy saved is reserved for walking the rest of the way.
Many years later, my daughter found a tin box under her sewing machine. Inside were a stack of yellowed kraft paper envelopes, bullet casings, and a notebook filled with "dereliction of duty." My mother stepped on the sewing machine and talked for three days amidst the clicking sound.
"When he was no longer with me, time turned into bullet casings, camouflage cloth, and IOUs written with a pen. What I have been saving for my whole life is not gifts, but him."
Three generations of women, one waited for fifty years, one waited until death, and one waited no longer - but waited for someone who came back every time.
