Today is the final day of spring break, 2025. I should be at the beach, toes buried in warm sand, listening to waves crash against the shore. Instead, I'm standing in a funeral home, staring at my grandfather's faded baseball cap.

This is my first funeral. My parents have no relatives in the U.S.. I've never been to anything like this.

Laughter drifts from the service next door: warm, fond laughter. I hear them sharing stories: “Remember when Jim went fishing and fell into the river himself...” More laughter. Then music, the comfort of hugs, many footsteps. I peek through the door crack and see their side filled with flowers, white lilies, yellow roses, wreaths piled like mountains. Tables are laden with food: sandwiches, cookies. And the smell of coffee drifts over it all.

Our side is clinical, stark, austere.

No flowers. No food. No friends. No one to share stories about Grandpa, because no one here ever knew him. Grandpa had only been in the U.S. for four months. Four months wasn't enough to make friends or to leave a mark on this land.

Instead of the same fanfare that permeated from the other side of this funeral home, a circus of people spinning like tops, our audience is made up of just the three of us. Mom grips Dad's arm, crying so hard she could barely stand. She was Grandpa's only child. Dad quietly recites prayers, wishing Grandpa a swift journey to the Pure Land. My little sister stayed home with Grandma, whose depression has consumed her at the loss of her partner. She could not get herself to attend the ceremony, and I suppose I can’t really blame her.

Grandpa lies peacefully in his casket, wrapped in his favorite floral quilt and wearing his sunglasses. I stare at his hands, avoiding his face. As long as I don’t look at his face, I persuade myself that I can pretend he just sleeps.

The silence in the room is so heavy, yet I can hear my own heartbeat, the hum of the air conditioning, the rustle of Dad turning pages in his Buddhist text, and Mom's sniffling.

Laughter, again, intrudes on our solemn, silent mourning, and is followed by applause. Next door, they clap. Clap for the dead.

I muster some courage to look back at Grandpa. Someone should clap for him too. Someone should stand up and say, “Remember when Old Ma...” making everyone laugh, nod, and say “Yes, yes, that's exactly how he was.”

But no one here knew “how he was.” No one knew he played the flute, loved drinking, never got angry. No one knew he'd secretly buy Coke for his grandson, would quietly listen to a kid stumbling through broken Chinese relay his troubles.

Grandpa should have flowers. Someone should tell his stories. Someone should remember him. But no one here knew any of that. 

This is what an immigrant family’s funeral looks like. Small. Quiet. Intimate. And a little bit lonely. To this country, he never existed, but to us, he was everything.

“It's time to say goodbye,” the funeral director suddenly intrudes upon my reverie.

Mom, through her tears, takes my hand and declares: “Come. Say something to Grandpa.”

I open my mouth to speak, but my voice stays stuck, timid in my throat. Instead, I raise two fingers to my lips, a secret sign Grandpa and I shared. It means “let's drink Coke together.”

My mother is a health behavior professor at the university. For as long as I can remember, we've had three different weighing scales at home. Food measured in cups, salt calculated to the gram. Every time she buys groceries, she'll check all the ingredients to ensure they do not hold harmful, chemical additives. She treats CDC guidelines like gospel and our household like her research laboratory. Carbonated drinks? Absolutely forbidden. When guests bring juice, Mom pours a quarter cup and dilutes the rest with water.

In fact, in third grade, at a friend's birthday party, I watched as they poured full cups of juice. “You don't add water?” My question was innocent, and entirely based on the comparison of my family’s own kitchen. Everyone laughed. My face burned. I stared at my shoes, pretending to study how the laces were tied. After that day, I never mentioned my family's rules to anyone again.

Low-salt meals, diluted juice, strict vegetable-to-meat ratios. They all became secrets.

Until everything changed when my grandparents moved in.

Grandpa had smoked and drank for thirty years. He loved fatty meat, rarely touched vegetables or fruit, and didn't even brush his teeth. Mom watched but said nothing. Maybe because he was already in his seventies. Maybe because he came from another era, another world—one where cigarettes and alcohol were hospitality, where fatty meat was a rare delicacy. Maybe because he was the adult in that relationship, and it’s not a child’s responsibility to chastise their parent.

Despite his lifestyle, grandpa only had high blood pressure and a little lung disease. No obesity. No diabetes. No cancer. No teeth had fallen out. Anyone else would have been riddled with illnesses, but Grandpa could still walk, still drink, still laugh. His body was much stronger than what we expect of a person in his seventies.

“Is Grandpa God?” I secretly asked Grandma.

She laughed and patted my head. “Your grandpa just has a peaceful heart. He understands life. Nothing bothers him. Nothing makes him nervous.”

I thought about that, and was struck by the sincerity of what she said. She was right. I'd never seen Grandpa nervous, ever. Even if the sky fell, he probably wouldn't furrow his brow. He’d smile, move on and laugh again. Life, to him, was joy.

At first, Grandpa and I barely talked, divided by language. My Chinese wasn't good, and he didn’t speak English. Then one evening, he called me into his room and mysteriously pulled a can of Coke from his bag.

“Got it at the Chinese church's New Year party today,” he said. “I saw many kids drinking it. Sweet things make people happy.”

Grandpa smiled and handed me the can. I twisted open the cap. The fizz sounded especially loud in the quiet room, like small explosions, one after another.

I smelled the sweetness, and something sharp I couldn't quite identify, and took a careful sip.

The moment the cold liquid hit, my whole mouth tingled. Bubbles jumped on my tongue, prickling, then sugar radiated, overwhelming, spreading from my tongue down my throat, even up into my nose. It had been so long since I'd had Coke, so long, I'd almost forgotten what it tasted like. Not the faint sweetness of Mom's diluted juice, but intense, almost excessive sweetness.

I took another sip. Then another.

Two weeks later, I was feeling down again. Too much homework, another fight with friends. I walked into Grandpa's room and opened his bedside medicine box out of habit.

Inside was a can of Coke.

The sight of it made my whole body go limp. I didn't know who put it there. My Mom? My Dad? My Grandma?

Twisting open the cap, I listened to the familiar fizz. The room still smelled like Grandpa. I took a sip and closed my eyes.

Grandpa was still here. Just in another way. Grandpa watched me, his eyes crinkling into crescents. “Good?”

“Good,” I said. I'd snuck a sip once at a friend's house when I was younger, but the moment had been rapid, no time to truly experience the taste. This moment in this room with grandpa was different. I could drink slowly, savoring it. My mouth buzzed and danced.

I'd forgotten Coke tasted like this. I'd forgotten happiness could taste like this.

After that, Grandpa would find ways to get one or two cans of Coke for me without my Mom knowing. Sometimes he'd bring them home from community events. Sometimes when Mom took him to the grocery store, he'd secretly buy them with his own pocket money. When Mom put my sister to sleep, I'd slip into his room. We'd sit on the edge of his bed, share a Coke, and chat in broken Chinese-English.

I told him about school, about exam pressure, friend drama, frustrations with Mom's rules.

Once, I told him I'd stood at the school entrance for two hours, trying to recruit new members for a club I'd founded. I'd made a poster, prepared a lot to say, and imagined many people would stop and ask.

“And then?” Grandpa asked.

“Then...no one came,” I said, my voice shrinking. “They all just walked past, didn't even look at me. I was invisible.”

“What happened in the end?”

“In the end, only two people showed up to the club meeting. Two. I feel like a failure. No one at school likes me.”

Grandpa took a sip of wine and was quiet for a while. Then he said, “Two people are still people.”

“But—”

“How many people did you want?” 

“I don't know, ten? Twenty?”

“Why?”

I'd never thought about that.

Grandpa continued. “If these two people really want to come, really like your club, then that's enough. A hundred people who don't want to come aren't as good as two people who genuinely do.”

I thought about that. It kind of... made sense.

“You made a poster, stood at the entrance, and two people came,” Grandpa said. “That's not failure. That's success.” He smiled. “Drink some Coke, then keep working at your club.”

I laughed. Such a simple answer, but somehow, I felt so much better.

Grandpa smiled too. “See? Coke is sweet, life can be sweet too. As long as you don't keep staring at the people who didn't come, but look at the ones who did.” Such a gentle conversation that would come to mean everything to me.

Grandpa never interrupted, never offered unwanted or unsolicited advice. He mainly listened, occasionally sipping his wine and smiling quietly.

“You're already wonderful,” he'd say.

One minute I might feel like the world was ending. But then in the next, I'd realize, because of Grandpa, whatever ailed me really wasn't such a big deal. In some way, this was his superpower.

The night after Grandpa died, I waited until Mom was asleep, then quietly went to his room. I pushed open the door and stood there, a statue stuck. Mom sat on the bed, holding a can of Coke.

“You came too,” she said, wiping her eyes.

I didn't know what to say. I just stood in the doorway like a sentinel. The room still smelled like Grandpa—alcohol, cigarettes, and that indescribable scent that belonged only to him.

“Your grandma loves sweet things,” Mom said, looking at the Coke in her hand. “Look, Grandpa even hid Coke. When I was cleaning, I found several cans in his blood pressure medicine bag. He drank them secretly, afraid I'd find out.”

My heart drummed. I knew I should say something, but the words were stuck.

“No,” I finally got out, my voice small again. “They weren’t for him. They were for me.”

Mom looked up.

“Grandpa would find ways to get Coke.” As I spoke, I monitored my mother’s face, really scrutinizing her eyes and her mouth.  “Sometimes from community events. Sometimes he'd buy it with his own money at the grocery store. And when you were putting my sister to bed, I'd go to his room. We'd drink together. And talk.”

The room went quiet and stayed that way. Moonlight streamed through the window, falling on Grandpa's empty bed. Mom looked down at the Coke in her hand, turning it around and around, as if studying something she'd never seen before.

“I thought I knew him,” she finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I knew everything about him. His habits, his thoughts.” She paused, again turning over the bottle. “But he still had secrets. There were still parts of him I didn't know.”

Her hands shook. I could see the Coke trembling slightly in her grip.

“Why didn't he just tell me?” she asked, as if asking herself as much as me. “Why hide it? Did he think I'd be angry?”

“I don't think...he wasn't afraid you'd be angry,” I said. “He just...he just wanted to make me happy.”

Mom closed her eyes and took a deep breath. I looked at the Coke in her hand, then at Grandpa's medicine bag on the nightstand.

“Mom,” I said, “why do you think...why did Grandpa hide the Coke in his blood pressure medicine bag?”

“Because he knew I'd check everywhere else, but I wouldn't touch his medicine.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But I was thinking something else...maybe for Grandpa, Coke was medicine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Every time I felt bad, he'd give me Coke. And then I'd feel better.” I tried to figure out how to explain. “It wasn't the Coke itself that made me feel better. It was him listening. It was him telling me 'you're already wonderful.' It was him making me feel...feel like I wasn't alone. The Coke was just...just a way to bring me in.”

Mom looked at the Coke in her hand for a long time without speaking.

“So he put Coke in his medicine bag,” she finally said, “not just to hide it. But because...because for him, this was medicine. Medicine for you.”

I nodded.

“Medicine for what?” She asked.

“Loneliness. And feeling like a failure.”

Mom's tears started flowing again.

“So that's how it was,” Mom said. “No wonder you two got closer and closer. It was Coke.” She laughed, but her eyes were red. “I was wondering if your Chinese is so poor, how were you even talking?”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I know you don't let me drink it—”

“Did the Coke make you happy?” she interrupted.

I nodded. “Sometimes.”

“Why?”

I thought for a moment. “I don't know. Maybe because...when I drank it with Grandpa, it tasted sweeter.”

Mom patted the bed beside her. “Come. Sit.”

We sat on Grandpa's bed in silence. Mom opened the Coke, took a sip, and handed it to me.

The bubbles danced on my tongue, just like always. But this time, Grandpa wasn't there to delight in it all.

“Your grandpa never did what I told him,” Mom said, her voice soft. “Your grandpa's life was a slap in the face to my whole career as a public health professor.” She laughed and cried in equal measure. “I've spent my whole life studying health, teaching people how to live  well. But your grandpa...he smoked, drank, ate fatty meat, and lived better than anyone.”

She looked out the window. “I used to think you could only be healthy by strictly following the rules. Now I think...maybe happiness matters more than rules. Your grandpa understood that. I didn't.”



We sat like that and finished the last of Grandpa's hidden Cokes.