In a desperate attempt to wipe my tears, my grey shirt dampened into a spotted, near-black shade. I covered my mouth to muffle my cries and slowly tried to suppress the hiccups creeping up my throat. A few hours prior, my brother had gone on his usual rampage, but this one ended with him slapping me and leaving the room with a satisfied smirk. I climbed my way up to the olden attic and into the dusty, cramped closet. The near 90-degree weather of Japan made the air suffocating and tight.

For three hours, I ignored the way my mother called my name in an impossible game of hide-and-seek. I ignored the ingenuine apologies my brother shouted at an attempt to lure me out. I ignored the way my dehydrated body slowly felt dizzy and out of touch. I ignored the ever-increasing heat, creeping into my body and sucking the energy out of it.

It was then my grandmother found me. As a petite woman, she easily ascended the cramped stairs and fit into the small crevice of the closet opposite of me. Gently wiping my tears and holding me close, I felt comfort in her arms. 

My grandmother is a quiet woman. At just five feet, her demure personality is fitting with her timid appearance. For a long time, my memories of her were a fuzzy, amorphous, mess; the vague smell of miso soup and rice surrounded a past I remember little of. Because she would never say much, it was hard to understand her character and I could never truly say I felt close with her. Yet during that moment, it was because she did not say anything that I felt truly understood. Her silence was enough to calm my breaths down and stop the snotty mess coming down my nose. Her thin fingers rubbed my back the way my mother used to and the room suddenly felt fuller than it did before. 

Eventually, I made it downstairs to my mother, my brother and to the room I called home with my grandmother’s hands clasped in mine. And even after letting go of that hand, my grandmother silently watched as my brother and I had to 'make up' after receiving a scolding from our mother. 

From then on, I became attached. 

I followed my grandmother around, reached for her hand when thunderstruck at night and read novels while she ironed the clothes. We did not talk much, but it was enough for us to understand each other better. She always woke up at five to do the laundry, hang the clothes, vacuum the floors, iron the clothes, make breakfast and do an overflowing abundance of chores every single day. I learned that she appreciated little acts of consideration like simply taking the trash out or telling her that her food was delicious. I admired that she found joy in taking care of others. My grandmother is a selfless, kind and irreplaceable soul who deserves the absolute world.

I realized back then that it is not in her words but in her silence and presence that I find comfort because my grandmother is a petite woman with a large heart.