A writing Contest HOSTED IN PARTNERSHIP WITH Sweet July

A Letter to My Grandparents

By Megumi Jindo

Finalist

Dear Grandparents,

I just wanted to write something to you because this omnipresent sadness now cloaks me more than ever—the feeling that this summer in Japan will be the last time I’ll see you in the flesh, feel your beating heart as I jump into your arms and snuggle my little self around your neck, like I have every fourth summer since I was born. Although we’ve only just started our road trip and have departed from Kyushu, from you, my heart’s already aching again. I’m craning my neck every few seconds, peering back each time we pass a milestone of a prefecture. You’re getting further and further away. 

The road trip must go on.

I’m sorry I didn’t get to spend a lot of time with you—there’s never enough time here. I know I don’t get to see you often and you’re growing older each day, but I would hate our last interaction to have been you hugging me, “until next time,” into your weathering arms, squeezing once, twice. I would hate our last interaction to have been at the movie theater, watching Miyazaki Hayao’s newest film with our eyes bulging, stunned by the detailed anime on the big theater screens; a minute later, I glimpsed you nodding off. In some ways, that reminded me of how tired you must be, how far you’ve come in life, of all your stories of surviving World War II as your parents and siblings suffered through the spiteful ashes. I felt how much you wanted to talk at that moment—I hope we do soon.

I used to think that I had forever with you, that you would always be the grandma that would piggyback me and the grandpa that would greet me with your echoing rumble of voice. Now I know—as I sit in the car, jotting this letter while the views of the highways in Japan disappear and the salty ocean of this island flows through my blood like a calling hearth—that I shouldn’t stay late in bed and rise at noon only to find the day already ending; the day should start earlier, because there is more to accomplish in life. Now I know that even when I suffer in hospitals and on medications because of my illness, I can power through. You’ve crossed countless hardships—taught me what courage, passion, and promises are. You taught me that the stars will forever watch over me. Through your bright eyes, as you retold your childhoods, you taught me it is through visions and stories we must continue to live (and so I pen poetry for those who wish to hear our stories). You taught me that I shouldn’t be afraid to leave this Earth—that you aren’t. My tremble at death has stemmed because I know it doesn’t end at death. Most of all, you taught me that even if I may not get this letter to you, the road trip will go on. The road trip must go on.

So I end this letter. Thank you, Grandma, Grandpa. Thank you for everything.

Love, 
Your Granddaughter,
Megumi

Process

This piece was inspired from a scholarship prompt: “Describe an experience that caused you to change your perspective and/or opinion.” Over the 2023 summer, I visited my grandparents with my family with an awareness that time was running out with them. Living in America but then being with them in Japan, a country that doesn’t say “I love you” explicitly, made me squirm to even think of saying it. This left me repressing that feeling, which overflowed in this writing. Even without this prompt, I think I would have eventually let out my feelings, but since this prompt was the first thing I wrote to after coming home, they all spilled out on here.

To this day, I haven’t sent them this letter (even though I have emailed “I love you,” I know it’s not the same). I know I probably should, because time is of essence, but I guess it’s a vulnerability that I have yet to conquer. I’m really glad though, thanks to my mentor who encouraged me to submit this piece, that this raw and earnest emotion gets a bit of light through being selected for the Sweet July contest.