Once in a blue moon, she remembers me. But most days, she lives in a world where I am a stranger.

 

"Where's my gold chain? Someone took it," she says. Her hands fidget with invisible jewelry at her neck, eyes scanning the room like she's looking for thieves that never came. "Ah ma, it's safe. There's no one else in the house," I say softly, but my words don't reach her. She's gone too far into a place where logic doesn't apply, where time and memory has distorted into something unrecognizable.

 

She looks at me, sharp and suspicious. "Who are you?" Her words hit harder than they should, but I'm used to it now. I'm no longer the granddaughter she once adored; I'm just another random face in the crowd of her mind. I glance over at my dad, watching him silently wipe the corners of his eyes. He's used to it too, but it never gets easier. 

 

Once in a blue moon, we hope for a glimpse of who she used to be.

 

I sit down beside her, the couch sinking slightly under the weight of memories she no longer holds. She stares blankly at her weekend soap opera, maybe lost in the world of her imaginary friends again. We sit in familiar silence, only broken by her muttering about things that never happened – a missing wallet, people I've never heard of, places she's never been. 

 

But then something shifts. Her eyes soften for just a moment as they find mine. A flicker of recognition; so brief I almost miss it. "Oh, it's my granddaughter! Ah Ying!"

 

It feels magical. She smiles – an expression I haven't seen in awhile. For just a second, she's back. The fog clears. "How's school?" she asks, like it's any normal day. "Are you still studying hard?" I laugh, though it's shaky with emotion. "Yes, Ah Ma, I'm still working hard." 

 

Her hand reaches for mine, weak but steady. "Good girl," she says, with that same pride she used to have when I was a child. It's like we're back in her kitchen, sharing a plate of my favorite ngoh hiang that she made just for me. The smell, the taste – it all comes flooding back. "How come you're not married yet?" she teases. I laugh, a hearty laugh this time. I glance at my dad. His eyes are wet, but he smiles. I know he's feeling it too, that bittersweet joy of having her back, even if it's only for a moment.

 

But even as we talk, I can feel the moment slipping away. I want to hold on. I want this to last just a little longer. I want her to stay here with us, in this reality where I'm still her granddaughter, where we still talk about school, where she still laughs at my singlehood.

 

Just a little longer... But the blue moon never lasts, does it?

 

Her hand starts to pull away, the warmth fading. Her smile disappears, and I see that familiar confusion clouding her eyes again. "Where's my chain?" she mutters. And just like that, she's gone, slipping back into her world, searching for something she's lost again... I want to reach out, to pull her back. But I know better now. These moments are like catching snowflakes; as soon as you try, they melt away.

 

I look over at my dad. His tears slowly trickle down, though he probably thinks I don't see. He nods at me, silently acknowledging the tiny miracle we just witnessed. We both know these moments are rare. We both wish they weren't.

And yet, even as she drifts back to her imaginary world, the sound of her calling my name stays with me. It lingers, like the taste of ngoh hiang on a sunny afternoon from my childhood – a memory I can almost hold, but never quite grasp. 

 

I stand up slowly, leaning in to hug her. "See you next week, Ah Ma." And for a second, just in my mind, I picture her smile lasting forever.

 

Once in a blue moon, she remembers me. And once in a blue moon, that's enough.