My grandma knew how to run.

And when her children were torn from her arms, when her father in law scoured her heels, she did not fall down in defeat. She held tightly to the infant she had in her arms, and she ran.

Enduring hunger, and pain, and sickness, she ran. Eating bark from trees, fighting desperately to keep her baby alive.

And when she finally arrived in Hong Kong. She gritted her teeth and began a new life. And had new hopes and new children.

And I can just imagine days where the mahjong tiles would stop clicking for a brief moment, long enough for the thoughts to settle like the moisture from the sizzling HK air. Days where she'd have had to fight to keep her heart from breaking.

My grandma knew how to fight.

Many years later, when my grandfather had already passed away, and when all but one of her children were far from her, she returned to China. To a house that my grandfather had built for those children they had to leave behind. And she stayed there and fought like I've never heard of anyone fighting for their life until she'd seen every last person she needed to see, even though we were all so slow at trickling back.

Maybe the important thing is not that my grandma knew how to run, and that she knew how to fight, but that she knew when to run and when to fight. And that she had the strength of character (or possibly stubbornness) to follow through on what she had to do no matter how hard life's kicks were.

That's what you leave behind for me, Poh Poh. I'm glad you no longer need to run or fight. Rest easy.