You desperately want to make edits to your reel because your 10.8K fans are waiting anxiously for the next episode of the romantasy you’re spinning on Instagram, but your mum and grandmother are having a shouting match again, this time in the kitchen, and your little brother is kicking his soccer ball against the outside wall even though the neighbours have issued multiple warnings, and the television is blaring CNN doom-and-gloom, so with all the noise, you can barely hear yourself think, and of course, your iPad is now out of juice, so while your grandfather paces restlessly in the living room, you grit your teeth and look around, the pile of old newspapers no one has bothered to read, the bottles of supplements lined up like soldiers in a war against disease, the cold cups of tea, your eyes finally alighting on the bag of fish food under the table, “Specially formulated for koi” the package says, and you remember that it’s that time of the day when the fish need to be fed, when mum usually starts ranting Be a good grandchild will you? Help out for a change instead of staring at your phone all the time will you? and you suddenly recognise fish feeding for what it is, no longer a chore but a ticket out of this madhouse, so you heave yourself up from the sofa, take the creased paper cup and fill it to the brim with oily, brown pellets that remind you of po chai pills that your mum forced you to ingest when you were little, when you had a tummy ache, or worse, the runs, and armed with the loaded cup, you take your grandfather’s fleshy hand, saying Come, we go and feed the fish, in accented Cantonese that you’d be embarrassed to use in public, and you head outside into the garden, the old man trailing along behind you, his steps unsteady at first but then gaining confidence as he remembers where he’s going, where you’re taking him, along the stone path to where the gnarled trees and leafy bushes and potted plants cluster together like gossiping aunties at the wet market, next to the pond with the sputtering fountain in the middle, murky waters where orange, red and white shadows chase each other, shadows that rise to the surface as you approach with your grandfather in tow, and before you can fling the entire contents of the cup into the waters, which is what you normally do to get it over and done with so your grandfather can whoop with glee at the sight of the slippery fish with their gaping mouths, thrashing their bodies against each other in their fight for their supper, so your grandfather can delight in watching the same scene replay itself over and over again, almost every afternoon (except when it’s too hot or too rainy), you trip, sending the pellets skittering all over the concrete path and you’re about to swear out loud but you hold your tongue because you’ve seen how distressed your grandfather gets when he hears expletives, even tame ones like damn! or shit!, it’s the sharp, biting tones that sets him off your mum says, so instead you exhale, bend down to pick up the pellets, and to prevent your grandfather from wandering off, you grab a handful and place them in the curve of his palm, you tell him to throw it to the fish, which he finally does after watching you demonstrate, flinging your arm in front of you several times like you’re casting a line, and as the pellets land in the water, the fish are jolted into a frenzied feeding, sucking up the pellets in seconds, so you scramble to gather more pellets, placing them into your grandfather’s hand, showing him how to throw them to the writhing masses, and when you stoop again, you notice the black ants scurrying on the path, excited by the manna from heaven, and you pause to watch them, pointing them out to your grandfather who obligingly stops what he’s doing, since you were little he’s never denied your cries for attention, an ice cream at the mall or another small toy from Toys “R” Us, his hand hangs in mid-air as his eyes follow the specks on the path before returning to gaze at the pond, its waters rippling gently as the fish circle patiently, waiting for the next shower of fish food, which your grandfather obediently tosses after you again place six pellets in his palm, and as you continue to hunt for more on the ground, you notice the nodding white flower in the grass, why did you not see it before, does it have a scent you wonder, and you take a sniff, no it doesn’t, but it’s beautiful, even if you don’t know what it’s called, you’re sure your grandmother—who has always loved flowers and plants and gardening—she would know if she were here, even though this is not her garden, this is not their pond, this is just where your grandparents are cared for but it’s not their real home, and then you stand up to drop another six pellets into your grandfather’s hand, showing him again what to do as he’s momentarily forgotten, and you notice the liver spots on his left forearm, how they remind you of tiny islands on a map, and with each searching, with each retrieval of food pellets from the ground, with each toss, with each roiling of pond water by the orange, red and white carp, you hear the haunting calls of the koel in the ancient trees, you feel the fingers of the breeze brush against your cheeks, and you look at your grandfather like you’re seeing him for the first time, grinning so widely his one gold tooth is visible, as he starts to hum the melody of a song you’ve heard many times before but never thought to ask him what it’s called, who the singer was, why he likes the song so much that he can remember its tune, its lyrics, even as the words for your name, who you are, who he is, have evaporated like the ghostly tendrils of smoke from your grandmother’s incense sticks, even as you finally gather the rest of the fallen pellets into the cup, you pour them, little by little, six by six, into your grandfather’s hand, upturned as if in prayer, as precious time slows and drips, little by little, turning golden.