Since I was born, you have always been in my eyes the archetypal “grandpa”. You had white hair and an elderly stride, and you were retired, spending your days watching your grandchildren. You were an independent man who took long bus rides to Chinatown or elsewhere, and you were a stoic man. You had little to say to us but for a few scattered phrases of English you had learned, like “Good grandson!” Who knows what other stories of tragedy—of deep horror and heartbreak—were left unsaid; but also stories of joy—of peace and contentment: stories that were left unspoken, and now will forever be unspoken.

As I grew older, you gradually retreated from my life and from my memory. I saw you only now and then when I was in town, over at Grandma's house for lunch or at Central Grand (where the waiters knew you by sight). But there was one thing that did not fade from my memory of you. When I was little, you played a melody on the piano, again and again, even learning to accompany it with your left hand on the black keys. That melody stayed with me over the years. In university, I wrote a piece—a homage—containing that melody of yours. Over the years, I searched for it now and then, but could never find its name. It was only in the last few years, when you had moved to the care home, that I finally asked Zixiang what that song was. I only wish I had the courage—or even the language—to ask you all those years ago not just for the name of this song, but for all those other stories that you kept inside.

There is one thing you showed me, however, that I have kept with me all this time, which is the importance of being present. Helpful or not, your presence was always a part of our lives, and you became a part of me simply by being there as I grew up around you. That is why I so am grateful to be here with family and friends today, to be in their presence and to accompany you, one last time. I know now how important it is to preserve these connections, and I hope we will all continue to be a presence in each other's lives, always. And so as a farewell, I would like to share with everyone the same song you once played for me: the “Love Song of Kangding”.