A Letter Never Sent 7

A Letter Never Sent 7

 

Around 10 PM, Kwangsoo arrived at the hospital with his wife. As I looked at him, I often feel a sense of unfairness, as though time has passed me by alone. Although there is a four-year age difference, Kwangsoo still has thick, dark hair and no wrinkles on his face. If I were to call him youthful, it would not be an exaggeration; he looked like a young man. I couldn’t help but think that time, and life itself, is unfair.

Kwangsoo and his wife, Teresa (whom his parents call by her baptismal name), came to visit my parents who were spending the holiday alone, without any children visiting. They came in our stead and played the role of children for us. In terms of gratitude, I shouldn’t envy Kwangsoo’s youthful appearance, and it wouldn’t be a loss for me to give him some of my youth, even if it meant I’d lose some of my own.

Unlike the quiet Kwangsoo, Teresa, perhaps because she is a woman or because she is more emotional, expressed her pity and sadness in words. Before Kwangsoo and his wife arrived, my father was still in a peaceful state, although he had been struggling a bit. But once they appeared, the atmosphere changed dramatically. It seemed that Teresa hadn’t seen my father for at least a month, since he had been in the hospital. She was shocked by the drastic change in him. The image of the "handsome uncle," who had always been healthy, gasping for breath must have been painful for her, and she even shed tears. She repeated the words, "My handsome uncle, my handsome uncle..." but couldn’t continue speaking. Then, she held my father’s hand and began to weep.

Meanwhile, my mother, my younger sibling, and I remained calm. My father’s character, his demeanor, and his neat appearance had never been disturbed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father with messy hair or a disheveled beard, even when he came home after drinking. Even when he served in the military, he would iron his uniform so carefully that it was always crisp and stiff. His neatly combed white hair seemed elegant even to Teresa.

From Teresa’s perspective, I am someone far removed from "elegance." No matter how generously I might be judged, I could never compare to my father’s tidiness. It’s too far from me.

As I traveled a few times with my younger sibling, I realized just how much he resembled my father. When I watched him walk, I would occasionally see my father’s gait. His body type and the way he walked were exactly like my father’s. Even the way he carefully folded his clothes and neatly packed them into his travel bag amazed me. His actions and character were so similar to my father’s that I felt both surprised and amused.

I remember how much my father must have been frustrated with me, as I couldn’t even keep things organized when I was young. Now, my wife’s nagging has made me improve significantly, but I can still imagine how much my father must have struggled.

In the meantime, Kwangsoo’s wife called my younger sibling and me to come over. Kwangsoo had brought some kimbap and odeng soup (though nowadays it’s called oden, I still prefer the term "odeng"). While sitting beside my father, I occasionally felt hungry, but I could not bring myself to eat. However, when I saw the odeng soup, my stomach began to rumble, as if my hunger had been lying dormant, waiting. Even though the room wasn’t cold, my stomach felt empty. I quickly devoured a roll of kimbap with some odeng soup. It wasn’t a fancy meal, but the comfort it gave me that night was something I will never forget.

The source of that comfort was the people who brought the food— their love and care. Small acts of love or consideration can move and touch people. "Am I someone like that?" At least with my father, I couldn’t say I was. I was always lacking in my love and consideration for others, and my focus was mostly on my children or my wife, leaving my father at the bottom of the priority list or even neglecting him. I had been indifferent.

I hadn’t even made the effort to give my father a little kindness and had kept putting it off. How much of a debt do I owe for that? Suddenly, a thought crossed my mind. That’s right, I had written a letter to my father once. A letter I had never sent. Before my father’s consciousness faded, I still had time to read that unsent letter out loud to him. Through it, I could express my gratitude, my apologies, and even my love—though small—directly to him. And that time was still available.

The Unsent Letter