Nguyễn Huỳnh Lê Hân - 2257011029

The incident happened in 1957, yet my head is not in this sterile living room with its
floral wallpaper and shabby chairs. It is back there, in that tight, pigeon-filled home,
where the air is thick with tension and the scent of stale pipe smoke. I am 68 now, a
lifetime away from that fiery 18-year-old Alice, but the memory of my grandfather's hold
on my future still aches.
He was a good man, I suppose, stuck in a departed era. We were a unit, he, myself, and
the pigeons fluttering in their coops. He envisioned me as an extension of himself, a little
Alice content with tending to his birds and listening to his stories of a simpler time.
However, I was a whirlwind, yearning for more than just that coop. Love, it seemed, was
the catalyst that shattered his delicate world.
Steven, my husband, was hardly his ideal choice. He was the polar opposite of my
bookish grandfather, with a loud laugh and a motorcycle. Their disagreements were like
hurricanes, shaking the foundation of our small home. Looking back, I could see my
grandfather’s possessiveness as an expression of love twisted by fear. He had seen his
daughter leave, and build lives outside his control, and I was his remaining descendant,
reluctant to take flight.
My personal conflicts with my grandfather were augmented by a desperate desire for
independence. I sought the normality of a youthful romance, including the stolen kisses
and whispered secrets. My frustration at his disapproval was palpable. Now, I understand
it. His was an unbreakable love, one who would do anything to keep me safe, even if it
meant cutting my wings.
The day he freed his favorite pigeon was a turning point. It was as if releasing it fly
elicited he was finally letting me go. His gift from Steven, a new pigeon, carried an
intriguing symbolism. He was acknowledging the inevitable, the migration of hearts to
their chosen partners. I can now comprehend the tears I could not express at the time.
They were a mix of relief, sadness for the world I left behind, and a newfound
understanding of the complex man who raised me.
Life, of course, was not a fairytale. My marriage to Steven was not without difficulties.
He was hardly the hero in shining armor I had imagined, but he was mine. We have made
a life together, reared children who became their own persons, venturing out into the
world just as I did.
Since I look at my own worn hands, I notice a bit of my grandfather in them. Years of
gardening have left calloused hands, and a love of tales has been passed on through
generations. In my wrinkles, I see the mark of laughter shared with family, a testament to
the life that he, albeit grudgingly, helped me create.
Nguyễn Huỳnh Lê Hân - 2257011029

Presumably, this is considered the bittersweet reality of growing up. It’s letting go of not
only childhood memories but also the expectations of people loving us. It’s about making
your own path, taking the love and teachings of the past as you soar into your own future.
My granddad, in his own way, taught me that. In the end, his love allowed me to fly, for
which I will be eternally grateful.