A Letter never Sent 3

A Letter never Sent 3

 

We arrived at Incheon Airport after 5 p.m. on October 2nd, Korean time.
I can't remember whether darkness had already fallen or if the sky was still bright.
Perhaps it was because I was feeling so anxious.

Whenever I went to see my father, I would always buy a bottle of whiskey sold on the airplane.
Whiskey was, in short, a gift that carried a certain dignity.
Since it was duty-free, it was cheaper than buying it on the ground, so it didn't feel burdensome.
Moreover, the black and gold packaging of the whiskey box gave off an atmosphere of elegance,
enough to convey a certain sense of gravity to the person receiving the gift.

Since my father loved to drink, I never had to think too hard —
whiskey was always the perfect gift.
He would say, "You didn't have to buy this,"
but anyone could see from his expression how pleased he really was.
And so, reading my father's face,
I would feel deeply satisfied, as if I had fulfilled my duty as a son with just that one bottle.

But now, I could no longer even offer that childish act of filial piety.
Not just for my parents, wife, and children, but even toward strangers,
my love and care have always been so clumsy —
like a single-celled amoeba.

As I hurried out of Incheon Airport,
my left hand — where there normally would have been a bottle of whiskey — felt unbearably empty.
Perhaps until the day I leave this world,
my left hand will always feel that emptiness,
where a bottle of whiskey ought to have been.

Childish as it may be,
I really, really wanted to buy a bottle of whiskey to give to my father.

Ah, just one bottle!
In all my life, had I ever so desperately needed a single bottle of whiskey?

Even now, as I write these words, the thought of that bottle pains my heart.

As I went out to catch a taxi to the hospital where my father was,
a corner of my heart crumbled,
like a sandcastle by the sea.