A Letter Never Sent 13

A Letter Never Sent 13

 

My younger sister, who had left from LA, hadn’t arrived at the hospital yet. The nurse asked if there were others coming. Although my sister hadn’t arrived, I was told to proceed with the necessary procedures at the hospital. The nurse became busy again, issuing the death certificate, and my father’s body was placed in something like a garment bag, which concealed his insides. My mother contacted the funeral service company. My father had already made all the arrangements and even paid the fees, as he had inquired and planned for this during his lifetime. It was then that I felt my father’s heart, realizing that he didn’t want to burden us even in his death. My mother also informed the church where she attended, the Nungpyeong Cathedral, about my father's passing. We only needed to follow the instructions. The funeral and the burial at the National Cemetery would be handled by the funeral service, and the prayer and mass would be prepared by the church's senior group. After my father’s passing, it became evident that his life had been remarkably neat and tidy. His feelings toward me must have been the same. Although I didn’t notice at the time, as time passed and I grew older, I could finally see and understand his heart.

In front of our house, there is a magnolia tree. In spring, its large blossoms bloom abundantly, enough to bend the branches. In winter, when the leaves have fallen, tiny snowflakes hang densely from its branches. During winter, the magnolia tree, with its snow-covered branches, looks barren and unattractive. Unless you look carefully, there is nothing that draws attention. But when it blooms in the spring, its fullness and richness are beyond what my eyes can take in. My father's heart was like the magnolia's snow. It was just a fleeting moment, and I didn’t have the time or heart to understand it. My heart was always in winter. My father's heart, after his passing, began to bloom like the magnolia flowers. But this spring, something strange happened to the tree. Some of the blossoms didn’t bloom, and the tree seemed to be dying. Oddly enough, I felt like my life was resembling my father's in some way. Will the magnolia tree bloom again next spring? Even if it does, will I be able to see it clearly?

While waiting for the ambulance to carry the body, my younger sister arrived at the hospital. She seemed to have mentally prepared herself during the flight and was relatively calm. Shortly after, the ambulance arrived. The nurse on duty came down to the underground parking lot to see us off. Seeing her escort us all the way to the outside of the building reminded me of when our children were born and the nurses would bring them out to us. The nurses would carry the babies and pass them on to us. This was likely done to avoid any responsibility issues in case something happened inside the hospital. But it didn’t matter. Seeing the nurse’s thoughtful gesture made me feel assured that my father had received compassionate care in the hospital. Thinking about the nurse who stayed with him overnight, my heart still warms. I understand the difference between doing something as a job and doing it with a heart. Although I am older and my physical eyesight has faded, the blessing of age is that my heart’s vision has become clearer. I can now see the care my father had for me, a care that only now becomes visible.

The nurse, who was described as an “angel in white clothes,” was actually wearing a pale pink nurse uniform. Whenever I think of that pink color, my heart still warms. Despite my insensitivity to people and faces, the nurse’s generous spirit has left a lasting pink mark in my heart. I wonder, what color will I be remembered by? Do I even have a color of my own?

Just then, a taxi came with some guests, and my mother, wife, and younger sister got in the taxi to head to Nungpyeong Cathedral. My younger sister and I got into the ambulance. My sister sat beside the driver, and I sat next to my father’s body. Since this was an ambulance transporting a body, the heater wasn’t on. Despite it being early October, the morning air was chilly. Suddenly, I longed for some hot soup. After a sleepless night and having eaten just a roll of kimbap for dinner, I felt hungry. It had been a long time since I yearned for something as simple as a warm bowl of soup.

The ambulance drove smoothly without any traffic, even though it was rush hour. After about thirty minutes, we turned onto a narrow country road. I could intuitively tell we were nearing Nungpyeong Cathedral. On both sides of the narrow road were shops and restaurants, but the signs seemed out of place, as if they didn’t belong. A sign for an eyeglasses store in French seemed awkward against the backdrop of the town. I noticed a sign on the door of a shabby restaurant that said "Breakfast served" in careless handwriting with a magic marker. Suddenly, hunger and weariness overwhelmed me. The hastily written sign felt like an old friend, comforting me.

In 1980, when I was commissioned as a second lieutenant in the army, I was assigned to the 51st Regiment of the 12th Infantry Division. The regiment headquarters was located in a rural place called Cheondori, which was 30 minutes further from Wontong, and I was assigned to the combat support company. The environment was harsh, and the soldiers there often grumbled about their situation. The unpaved gravel roads and old buses reminded me of the soldiers’ attitude. In that harsh place, I survived because of a humble restaurant that served breakfast. The "Breakfast served" sign in that restaurant had a kind of nobility and urgency that couldn’t be judged by its appearance. The simple warmth of a hot meal melted away my hunger and the cold of the winter nights. It was a savior to me at the time.

There was a sign for a restaurant in Cheondori that had "Breakfast served" written on it, but I don’t remember if it had a name. A warm bowl of bean sprout soup, a hot bowl of rice, a piece of fish, and a fried egg melted both my cold body and heart. That "Breakfast served" sign still flutters in my mind.

As we continued, I saw a sign on the corner for "Sundubu (soft tofu stew) 5000 won." The sign was simple and red, fluttering in the wind like the signs from restaurants in the 60s and 70s. I really wanted to stop and have some sundubu, but of course, I couldn’t stop the ambulance with my father’s body. If my father had been alive, he would have been the one to say, “Let’s stop and have a bowl of sundubu,” and we would have stopped the car. I remembered a time when my father and I had eaten sundubu together in LA with my younger sister. He didn’t eat much rice but finished the entire bowl of sundubu slowly. How I longed for that sundubu on this day, as if it would warm me and bring me peace.

The ambulance was now climbing the steep hill toward Nungpyeong Catholic Church.