Garcia 
Nami Garcia
Prof. Sperling
English 1A
30 January 2025
Time Doesn’t Wait for Understanding
"Nami!" Soft yet insistent, my Obaachan’s voice echoed through the hallway. I didn’t respond right away; I was always in my own world. It wasn't that I didn’t care. It was just that the things she would say wouldn’t click in my head; it was like the words were just going through one ear and out the other. She spoke in a language I didn’t fully understand—Japanese. And while I could recognize some words, the rhythm of her speech felt foreign to me, like a melody I couldn’t quite catch.
“Nanishiteruno?” (What are you doing?) She questioned, more patiently than I would’ve expected. Her hands, now weak and worn from the passage of time, patted the empty space beside her on the couch. I dragged myself over, half-heartedly. Her eyes crinkled with tenderness as she smiled at me, but I didn't really understand what she was saying.
“I'm hungry, Nami,” she said in broken English. But I wasn’t sure what she really meant, if it was a request or just a statement. Was she asking for food or just expressing an emotion?
Most of the time, I couldn’t understand my grandmother in the way she truly wanted. We had a language barrier that stood between us, and I had assumed for a long time that it didn’t really matter. She was there. I was there. But as I grew older, I began to realize that those simple moments were more significant than I’d given them credit for.
One day, while I was working on an assignment in my room, I heard her voice call from the kitchen. But this time, there was a note of urgency. “Nami, can you help me?” I was distracted, irritated even. I hadn’t finished my work, and I had no idea what she needed. I shouted back, “I’ll be there in a minute!” But minutes turned into hours, and I didn’t return to check on her.
That night, when I finally walked into the kitchen, my grandmother was sitting quietly at the table, her frail hands folded. I knew something was wrong. She didn’t need to say it. It was in the silence. I hadn’t noticed the depth of sadness in her once vibrant eyes. Without me noticing, her youth faded, and her health began to decline in ways I didn't completely comprehend.
My grandmother was in the hospital early the following day. And just a few days later, she passed away.
I remember sitting in that sterile room, looking at the doctors' faces, and realizing how little I had truly known her. It wasn’t just that I hadn’t fully understood her words, but that I hadn’t understood the weight of her presence, the quiet sacrifices she’d made to care for us. She had spent years trying to communicate with me in broken English, but I never took the time to learn her language, to listen to her stories, or to understand the life she had before she became a grandmother.
Looking back, I wish I had paid closer attention. I regret not being able to see past the language barrier and her use of simple, repetitive remarks. It wasn't just about food or tasks; it was about connection. About love. About understanding.
I thought about the things she left behind. Not only the memories, but also the teachings she subtly imparted to me. My grandmother didn't lead a glamorous or spectacular life. It wasn’t filled with grand gestures or extravagant stories. It was full of meaning. Every meal she prepared, every word she tried communicating, every silent smile, was her way of expressing love.
Through my grandmother, I learned that we frequently ignore the relationships that mean the most. It’s easy to take people for granted, to assume they’ll always be there. But time doesn’t wait for us to catch up. We don’t always realize the depth of a relationship until it’s too late.
Since then, I've begun to study more about my grandmother's language, and although I'll never be able to speak it as fluently as her, I can now appreciate the subtleties of what she was trying to teach me. I’ve learned to appreciate her small gestures, to recognize the importance of listening more than speaking. And, most importantly, I’ve learned not to take the people I love for granted.
I now take the time when I wake up to be grateful for the people who are still here, to hear what they have to say, and to find the deeper meanings. . I don’t wait for time to remind me of their importance. I don’t wait for another “I’ll be there in a minute” to turn into a lost moment.
The things we don’t understand—whether they’re words, people, or feelings—are often the things that matter most. And once they’re gone, it’s hard to look back and say we truly appreciated them.
But we can always try.