“Who are you?” Grandpa said, curiously scratching his head, petrified that I was an intruder. 

It had been a year since I had last seen Grandpa, and he looked grim and dangerously skinny, almost as if he were swimming in the same ashen gray collar shirt he had been wearing for years.  His previously fleshed black hair had overgrown into a smoky gray bush, flecked with winter-white crystals, and the skin of his face was as powdery-white as chalk . The skin of his finger was deeply creased like over-bred, tube-like raisins. 

I peered to my left, glimpsing Grandma from the back as she scrubbed her pots and pans. A crystal clear puddle of sweat had formed on her flowery shirt, and her frail forearms were two maps of oven and stove burns, some of them newly branded.  

My mother came into the room, caught my eye, nodded almost imperceptibly, and whispered two words, "Grandpa. Alzheimer's."  

That night, I tossed and turned, glancing at the flush mount ceiling light, flickering occasionally. 1, 2, flick. If only my brain could flick on like that. How long had it even been since that light was fixed? One year… or maybe two? 

The summer of 2019 was burning hot, so much so that you had to sip rather than lick your ice cream cones. I was waiting for Grandpa to repair the light fixture in my room and envied, as I sat there in half-darkness, the "cool kids" on Grand Street, racing their razor scooters in the street and breezing past every red light. 

“Grandpa!” I exclaimed in Mandarin as he entered. 

“I’m here, Jiaojiao,” he said, calling me by that special nickname which means “delicate and loveable.” He strolled into my room, holding a pale gray screwdriver and fresh new batteries. Step by step, he taught me how to fix the light. The plus battery goes on top and the minus battery goes to bottom--not so complicated. All of a sudden, I was in a world of light. 

That was 2 years ago when I still retained some basic Mandarin. Time passed, and the language disappeared out of my brain. I practically could not communicate with Grandpa any longer. In his condition, he only recognized a few Mandarin words, and I basically knew none, but I had always interacted with Grandpa in the summer, and the experience had been special.  

August arrived within a flash. Duolingo, and Mandarin dramas and variety shows were my means of leveling up my Mandarin skills.  I had to break through to Grandpa before the summer ended. The day had come. 

I entered Grandma and Grandpa's Chinatown apartment, hearing the chaotic noise of bees buzzing and then realizing that this was their own flush mount light fixture-- patience is the key, plus battery on top and minus to the bottom.  I realized that the light soldered into the ceiling was losing power.  I caught a glimpse of a pale gray screwdriver and fresh new batteries. I grabbed a wooden chair and positioned it below the light. The dust laid thick and crusty gray, and then I touched the glass of the light fixture with my fingers, a powdery, musty mist like pipe smoke curled in the air.  I took the screwdriver with one hand and the fresh new batteries in the other. I played back the memories and lessons I had received from Grandpa. My swift hands glided through the parts of the light and placed the plus on the top and the minus on the bottom. I snapped the cover of the flush mount back on, and clapped my hands together, further stirring the dust in the air. Grandpa smiled while showing two gapped rows of teeth, reminding me of my 3rd-grade self on picture day. “Thank you!” He beamed up, pulling up his sleeve to hold his hand out. “And what is your name?” he asks. 

"Jiaojiao,” I said, shaking his papery hand.  "Nice to meet you."