When I was about nine or ten years old, my maternal grandfather passed away. I had heard numerous stories about him from my mother, ever since we left our home country of Vietnam only approximately six years earlier. The stories I heard were heroic, not of a man who was a war hero, or a man who physically saved lives or could lift a 5-ton oxen with his bare hands. None of that sort. He was a heroic man who cared for his family. A hard worker, dedicated to working 15 hours a day to provide food and shelter in times of stress in the small village I was born in.

I don’t remember the exact day or even the time that my mother passed the news on to me that he had passed. I don’t remember exactly how old I was, or what I was wearing, or even what she said. I remember that she had told me stories of this phantom man that existed halfway across the world from me, who loved me merely because of who I was born from (his daughter), who wished me well and asked about me often in letters and in our infrequent expensive phone calls to Vietnam. I don’t remember ever meeting him, though I must have because I spent the first 4 years of my life in his company and often in his home. I don’t remember conversing with him, though I must have because I learned his name and he knew mine. I don’t remember much about him except the stories my mother told — how he threw me up in the air when I was a baby, how he kissed and cuddled me, how he hugged me tight and teased me until I giggled. She told me I was loved even from halfway across the world, and that I meant something to someone out there, even if I didn’t remember exactly what his face looked like, or the color of his skin, or the sounds of his words, or the smell of his breath after a meal.

I remember the feeling of love when my mother told me stories of her father. I remember her stories of her childhood, how she grew under his firm, yet loving hand. I remember how he treasured me, one of his many grandchildren, because I was from his own flesh and blood. I remember learning, from that very young age, that family meant starting from the same blood, and continued to survive through unconditional love and friendship.

The night my mother told me that my grandfather had passed away, I went to sleep at the top bunk of the bunk bed my brother and I shared at the time, with a framed picture of him tucked under my pillow. I felt an incredible sense of loss, for this mysterious man who loved me from afar. This man I don’t have any recollection of hugging, nuzzling, cuddling with, speaking with. I don’t remember any type of relationship I had with him, yet I felt an incredible, overwhelming sense of loss. Never shall I have an opportunity again to see him, to meet him, to finally have ingrained in me a tangible memory of my own of him, instead of those that were passed on from my mother. I slept with a framed picture of this old man under my pillow, and cried myself to sleep. Suddenly, I lost a part of my blood that I never even got to know. Suddenly, the word “death” had a meaning to me. It wasn’t just that grass died, or leaves fell in autumn, or ants were crushed under our feet. This was a living person who I meant something to, who could have meant something to me, that I shall never be able to meet.

And I thought, “Wow. A family member who loved me genuinely, no matter who I am, no matter what a bad girl I’ve been today, or yesterday, or tomorrow. A family member who didn’t even know me and loved me unconditionally. And he’s passed. He’s gone.”

And I felt an incredible sense of loss. I felt that something died in me as well. The possibility of being loved unconditionally again. The possibility of being someone else’s life, someone else’s little gem. I felt, like, I lost a family when I lost my grandfather.

When I was nine, I lost my grandfather. And I was left wondering if I would ever feel that unconditional love again.

Now I’m almost 30. And I realized that family was here with me all along. All those years I spent with my sister, who is seven years younger than me, were for building that unconditional love. All those years we grew up together, teased each other, hit each other, cried together, laughed together, became spies together, disappointed each other, tattled on each other. All those years I spent nurturing her, and changing her diaper, and dreading her, and being pissed off at her, and teaching her, and watching her, and ignoring her, and loving her. All those years spent was just to build that love that I felt came unconditionally from my grandfather.

My sister, who has known me from the time she was born, who has stuck with me in my worst times, who accepted me even with all my secret failures and shameful experiences and choices. My sister, who cried at my wedding and made a speech that moved the room. My sister, who was jealous when I got a boyfriend. My sister, who I love despite her annoying strawberry-gum-chewing habit, and her slow, sloth-like way of getting ready in the morning. My sister, who despite being 7 years apart, often get mistaken as my “twin without glasses.” My sister, who has loved me from the very beginning — loved my failures, my joys, my happiness, my sadness, my losses, my gains. My sister who never let me down. My sister who never left me. My sister who never said “You’re too much for me.” My sister who has always said, “Oh, well. That’s Helen.” and loved me anyway. My sister, who never needed an explanation about who I am or why I am. My sister, who just knew I am me because I am Helen. My sister, who never needed a definition of me. My sister, who after all these years, is still here. The only one who’s stuck around after all these years. The only friend who hasn’t done me wrong, said goodbye, left and never look back. The only one who I can safely be myself with and not fear the consequences of rejection.

The only one I can completely. be. me. around. My sister.

Somehow over the years, she went from being a baby whose diapers I changed, to being a toddler who followed me around, to being the annoying little bugger who had to go EVERYWHERE I went with my friends, to being the teenager who wanted to dress like me and wear her hair like me, to being a young adult who has her own opinions and her own loves and losses (and now, her own fashion sense too). Somehow, over the years, we went from being just family or sisters to being friends. One of the few people in my life who I surely know I can always reconnect with if we ever lose touch. The heart never stops dying, the mind never stops remembering, the love never stops giving. Our relationship thrives, no matter what.

And suddenly, from since I was eight, when my mother told me someone halfway across the world from me, who loved me dearly and unconditionally, passed away, I felt again the overwhelming loss of someone who not only loves me, but who I also know to love back. The loss came when I drove her to the airport this morning, and hugged her tight and saw her off. The grown girl who is almost an inch taller than me, walking away. The other half of my heart, the other half of my developmental soul.

But, the only difference is, this time, I know we will meet again, and the loss is only temporarily physical.