Ting! The ointment! I knew the deal: the quarter-sized red container of menthol and other unnamable herbal substances that brought tears to my young eyes.

Reach up on top of the fridge for grandma, I encouraged myself. For grandma.

I was born in the United States, but between the ages of six months old and four years old, I lived with my grandparents on my mother’s side in their rural Fujian hometown. I wasn’t a slave who fetched things for my grandma; rather, as she got older, she started feeling fatigued more frequently, and even at a young age, I insisted on helping her with whatever I could so she could get her much-needed rest.

 Her day was never complete without two things: a folding handheld fan and a daily affair with the peppery Tiger Eye Balm. She put it high on top of the fridge because she didn’t want us younger kids to accidentally irritate our eyes, but there was nothing harmful to it except that it was like a vapor rub: it cleared her sinuses, relieved her headaches, and soothed her muscles. Sometimes she would use it on our tummies to promote digestion or bowel regularity.

This ointment was no bigger than .5 ounces, but it cost a fairly large amount for a tiny thing. Granted, it lasted over a year, but it was unlike my Chinese family to spend extravagantly on one single object. Considering that her mother—my great grandmother—also used the same ointment and she had way less money, it must have some special healing power.

No longer a sheltered four-year-old, I’ve come to know its great power: comfort. I’m not talking just physical comfort, which was obvious to four-year-old me, but more importantly, emotional comfort. My grandma and great-grandma didn’t knit sweaters or bake sweets as stress relievers; they had the eye of the tiger! My mother’s side is notorious for their constant worrying and inundating negative thoughts, but this—this little red quarter of menthol and herbs—was the magical warm milk and fuzzy blanket for them. There is no pleasure in life if one cannot live it in comfort.

We used to be able to buy this balm in Manhattan’s Chinatown, but we can’t find it there anymore. Luckily, when we go back to China to visit every so often, we can still bring one back to New York—just one though, because it remains a luxury. The little red quarter of a container is worth more than twenty-five cents. It is a soothing reminder of just how priceless the simple things in life are.