In my reflections, I meditate on moments during my dance journey, my volunteering work in dementia care, and more.
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This week, I found myself thinking about memory and its connection to love. Is love tied to being remembered, or does love mean remembering? I’ve carried this question in my heart, feeling its weight and letting it guide my thoughts and actions.
I make a quick stop at the flower stand while on my way to the nursing home. "How can I help you, miss?" the lady kindly asks. "Something that can last the cold a bit longer?". As the lady wrapped the berry branches, my eyes are caught by the bright yellow gerbera's. I hesitated for a bit, but then made my decision. "And a few of those too, please."
At the nursing home, I find Giselle eating her lunch. "Nǐ láile ma? (You came), Giselle smiles while holding her last piece of sandwich. I smile at her with a bit of guilt. "Sorry, I wanted to hold you company during the lunch, but I see I ran a bit late." As residents hear our unfamiliar language in their living room, some of them gathered around us with curiosity. I look over at Giselle. "Let's go outside, shall we?"
The cold air bit at our cheeks as we strolled through the garden. “Are you running a marathon, Giselle? Màn yīdiǎn! (slow down)” I teased as she sped ahead of me. We burst into laughter, the sound visible as small clouds in the cold air. In that moment, I thought about the way memory imprints itself—not in words or names, but in shared moments like this. Memory feels like such a fragile thing. At the nursing home, residents greet me with a smile different from the first time we met. They ask me questions they have asked me before, as if we are meeting for the first time. And yet, their warmth is different—it carries a recognition that words couldn’t express. It made me wonder: does it matter if someone forgets the details, as long as the feeling of connection lingers?
Later, I visited the cemetery, a place that has always felt serene to me. There’s not really much that navigates me to my destination when I’m there, and I wouldn’t say the paths are clear as day—pretty much everything looks the same to me. I just follow the winding roads, and somehow, I always end up at the Chinese gate. Maybe the only people who truly remember the path to a certain grave, without knowing its layout, are the visitors of the grave itself.
Having arrived at my ancestors’ graves, I stopped walking and placed two gerberas and a branch of berries in each vase. One might last bit longer, but both are bought with the same intention. As memory is divided and scattered over different areas and processes of our being, and one memory lasting longer than the other, so is the feeling of love. And perhaps love isn’t about being remembered, but about choosing to remember what you can and to keep showing up. Whether it’s for the residents at the dementia home, for loved ones who have passed, or for the people we meet in our everyday lives, love is found in the moments we create, the care we give, and the connections we nurture—whether or not they are remembered. Nothing tangible is meant to last forever, no matter how enduring or strong it is, everything has its lifespan. As I bowed for my ancestors, I felt the weight of the week’s reflections settle into the quiet around me.
"Wǒ láile."
(I have come)
