Right Here, Right Now

by Huina Zheng

Ling’s heart fluttered with a mix of eager anticipation and a deep-seated anxiety as she settled into her train seat. Her nine-year old daughter, Yun, had waved goodbye, embarking on her own summer camp, and now it was Ling’s turn to journey back to her childhood home. She had taken her annual leave, yearning for undisturbed days with her elderly parents.

Ling, born to parents who entered parenthood in their forties, carried an early burden of concern for their well-being. Each outing provoked the inevitable question, “Are they your grandparents?” amplifying her sense of their vulnerability. Kindergarten presented a stark contrast with peers whose parents were much younger, and any sign of illness of her parents — be it a cough or fever — would fill her with dread, fearing the worst if she left their side.

This fear, once a childhood specter, lingered. Even as she navigated life as a married woman and a mother, the specter of her parents’ mortality was never far from her thoughts. The pandemic rekindled her old trepidation: what if the virus reached them before she could?

Amidst stringent three-year COVID-19 measures in China, Ling clung to video calls like lifelines, reaching out multiple times a day. Missed calls conjured nightmares of loss so vivid she would awaken, cheeks wet with grief.

Despite the miles and the fears, Ling’s resolve was clear: she yearned to weave new memories with her parents, to be with them, to ensure that the invisible threads of apprehension didn’t overshadow the warmth of their company. After all, time was a river flowing relentlessly, and she was determined to bask in its currents with those she held dear, here and now.

* * *

On the train, Ling’s fingers danced over her phone’s screen, crafting a list: cook heart-healthy meals, inspect the house for safety, schedule health check-ups.

She arrived to the aroma of her mother’s cooking: a spread of sweet and sour pork ribs, braised pork, and golden chicken nuggets, all glistening temptingly. Yet concern creased Ling’s brow; these were hearty dishes, rich and sweet, a delight to the taste but a potential risk for her parents’ health.

“Dad, Mom, we should consider lighter meals,” she said.

Her mother gave her a soft smile. “I wanted to cook your favorites.”

As her father reached for a nugget, Ling said, “Remember the doctor’s advice about your sugar levels?”

“I feel strong as an ox. You don’t need to worry about me,” her father said.

Looking at her father’s unhappy face, Ling opened and shut her mouth.

Ling’s concern shadowed her as she moved through the familiar rooms, examining each piece of furniture and appliance with meticulous care. Four years ago, she had had the house modified for safety: floors treated to prevent slips, bathroom rails installed for support. Discovering a loose screw on one of the handrails, her hands worked quickly to secure it, her heart racing with “what if’s.”

Ling’s mother asked her to have a rest on the sofa. Ling stared at an array of sweets: chocolates, cakes, and candies spread out like a sugary feast. As her father reached for a piece of chocolate, Ling said, “Dad, that’s full of sugar and fat.”

He shrugged, unwrapping the treat with a defiant smile. “My brother is 80 and thriving on cake.”

“Dad, you’re not getting any younger, and you need to take that seriously. What if your neglect for your health catches up with you? Have you thought about that?” Ling’s voice got higher.

Her father glared at her. He got up and went to the door. As he left, he slammed the door hard.

Staring at the closed door, Ling was swept back to a sultry summer evening from her childhood, her young heart set on a scoop of strawberry ice cream, her favorite. But her father had firmly said no, warning her of cavities and aching teeth. The sting of denial had sent her sprinting to her room, where she muffled her wails only by burying her face in her pillow. Then came the soft rapping at the door and her father’s arms, enveloping her in a gentle hug, his hand soothingly stroking her back until her sobs subsided and her world righted itself again.

Now, the roles were reversed; she was the guardian, the protector.

In this reluctant dance of caregiving, Ling grappled with her new role. She longed for simpler times, but life’s relentless march forward had thrust her into this phase where she must care for the ones who once cared for her.

* * *

An hour had passed when Ling’s father returned, his footsteps quieter. To mend the noon’s rift, Ling proposed an afternoon stroll through the park, reminiscent of their cherished Sunday tradition.

Once, as a young girl, the park was Ling’s wonderland, her tiny hands clasped in her parents’, her laughter mingling with the rustling leaves. They’d wade into the creek, her father teaching her to coax tadpoles into jars, while her mother, ever-watchful, rested on a bench, her eyes following their every move.

Today, the path felt familiar yet different; Ling’s steps were careful, attentive, as she guided her mother with a gentle hand. She watched for any unevenness that might challenge her mother’s steady stride, the memory of a past fall casting a long shadow.

Resting on a time-worn bench, Ling reclaimed her place between her parents, their hands clasped in silent solidarity. The gentle hum of the park swirled around them: elderly anglers by the river, children chasing summer’s bounty. A boy’s triumphant call to his father over a captured grasshopper sparked a smile on Ling’s face, a mirror to her own childhood exuberance.

In that moment, Ling’s heart swelled with a profound yet simple truth: the present was a fleeting, precious gift. Her worries about sugary treats and potential falls faded into the golden afternoon. Tomorrow, she would seek the doctor’s guidance, but today was for living, for loving, right here, right now, with her parents by her side.