A Letter Never Sent 1

A Letter Never Sent 1

 

“Trrring---, Trrring------”
The sound came to me in a half-asleep, half-awake state.
“What’s that noise?”
It sounded like an old-fashioned alarm clock, or maybe my cell phone.
Unable to pinpoint the source in my drowsiness, I opened my eyes and walked out to the living room.

‘Ah, right. I had gone home over the weekend, and my wife stayed behind.
I returned alone to our apartment in Brooklyn on Sunday evening.’
Only then did my mind piece together my location and situation.

A faint light was flickering from my phone on the table, which was ringing.
It was around 5:20 AM on a Monday.
I picked up the phone and looked at the caller ID — the number was unfamiliar.
As if to take revenge on the intruder who had disturbed my sweet sleep, I irritably hung up the call.

The moment I did, a pang of regret hit me.
Since my father had returned to Korea due to his poor health earlier that March,
whenever I received a call during sleeping hours, it always filled me with anxiety.
A foreboding thought crossed my mind.

Before I could even fully regret my rash decision to hang up, the phone rang again.
This time, it was my younger brother.
Instinctively, I knew something had happened to Father.
My heart began pounding.

“Hyung, Father is critical.”
My brother’s voice, usually so calm, was soaked with emotion as it flowed into my ears.
Everything suddenly turned dark around me.
My mind froze, unable to think of what to do next.

My brother hurriedly said he would arrange a flight ticket.
Since he frequently traveled overseas for business, he was adept at handling such matters.
All I had to do was get ready to fly to Korea.
Even when we visited our parents at my sister’s place in L.A. last time, he had managed everything.
He’s a master of traveling, so to speak — meticulous and thorough, just like Father.

All I needed to do was wrap up my absence at the store; everything else was covered.

No sooner had I finished talking to my brother than the phone rang again — urgently.
It was the same unfamiliar number I had rashly hung up on earlier.
This time, I hurried to answer, very carefully.

Ever since my eyesight had deteriorated with age, even answering the phone had become a challenge,
and sometimes I'd accidentally press the wrong button.

It was my cousin, Kwangsoo.
Although we occasionally emailed, we rarely spoke on the phone, so the number was unfamiliar.
He is someone I’m deeply grateful to — standing in for us siblings who all live in America,
caring for our parents in Korea.

Despite his busy life as a professor at his alma mater, after earning his Ph.D. in England,
he still found time to look after even our parents.
Through his trembling voice, Kwangsoo confirmed the heartbreaking news:
the flame of Father’s life was fading.

I owe Kwangsoo a debt beyond words.
Three years ago, when I visited Korea, Kwangsoo reminisced about a memory:
when he entered high school,
I had bought him an English-Korean dictionary with money I earned from part-time jobs during my college days.

I had completely forgotten about that, but he still cherished that trivial memory even after all these years.
Gratitude tends to fade and weather over thirty years,
but he had kept it fresh, wrapping it anew in his heart.

After our uncle had passed away at a young age,
Kwangsoo, his brothers, and their mother had endured much hardship.
Now, they all lead stable lives, and hearing from my parents about the deep bond among them
always made me silently pray, “Thank you, Lord.”

After finishing my call with Kwangsoo,
I called my wife in New Jersey, who had stayed home over the weekend.
She sensed something immediately upon answering.
Her voice, too, was heavy with emotion.
Only my voice sounded dry and detached.

Was it fear of facing death for the first time?
Or was it sorrow over the impending disappearance
of the very being who had brought me into this world?
Even two weeks later, I cannot untangle the complex strands of emotions I felt then.
Perhaps I never will, even for the rest of my life.

I went to the store and began mentally organizing the tasks I needed to delegate in my absence.
I called the staff and asked them to come in a little earlier.
Three of them have been with me for over 20 years.

Maybe it's because I’m blessed with good people,
or maybe it’s because they were simply stuck with me,
but we’ve spent a long, hard time together.
In any case, I am grateful.
Without them, I could never have survived the grueling life of an immigrant.

They, too, are all immigrants — from Mexico, Trinidad, Ecuador —
and Korea and America.
Seeing how people from such different countries work together harmoniously,
I can glimpse the hidden strength that makes America what it is.

My wife prepared my passport, a black suit, and a tie,
and drove out to Brooklyn to meet me.

Thinking about leaving just when the store was getting busy after summer gave me a twinge of anxiety.
Whenever situations like this arise, I mentally rehearse:
"If I were to die suddenly..."
and say farewell to all the things left behind.
There’s never really a reason you can't leave.
I've practiced this many times and have become fairly good at departing.

But when it comes time for me to truly leave this world,
will I be able to leave as I’ve practiced?
There's no other choice anyway.
The unfinished business will be left to those who remain.

I delegated the work to my employees and decided to let go of everything behind me.

I sent quick emails to a few friends and acquaintances in Korea.
Then, I arranged to meet my brother at the airport and got into the car my wife was driving.