A Letter Never Sent 2

A Letter Never Sent 2

 

At the airport, I said goodbye to my wife.
My younger brother and I were scheduled to take the 2 PM flight.
My wife would probably follow us on the 12:30 AM flight.
Before I arrived in Incheon, for a while, my wife and I would both be floating together in the sky, separated by a long distance.
Distance, space — the gaps we sometimes feel in life.
Surely, there must have been such a distance and space between my father and me too, even under the same sky, separated by a great expanse.

After grabbing a light meal and coffee at the lounge, we boarded the plane.
If my memory serves me right, it was an A380.
According to my brother’s explanation, the plane had two floors and could carry almost twice as many passengers as a Boeing 747.
For someone like me, who still finds planes taking off and landing a wonder, it was enough to make my eyes widen with curiosity.
Sure enough, even the boarding entrances were split into two — one for the lower deck and one for the upper deck.

Were the thoughts between my father and me always this divided too?
I live as if the world I see from my small space is the whole of reality.
A narrow angle, a short focal length — that's my vision.
On the lower floor where I was seated, there existed yet another world.

Even though my father was said to be suffering at the threshold between life and death,
the emergence of something new to see made me forget him momentarily.
Unable to resist the temptation that the new spectacle secretly threw at me — that's the kind of person I am.
After all, how many times did I skip lectures during my school days, distracted by the thrill of watching fires or fights?

Compared to the other planes around, the A380 we were about to board stood much taller and larger — it was clearly visible.
But after my father passed away, I realized that he was an even greater being than an A380.
While he was alive, I, ever the immature and lacking child, couldn't truly see that greatness.

Sitting on the plane, I talked with my brother.
Even though he’s my younger brother, there's a nine-year gap between us,
so we hardly spent time growing up together.
Moreover, with my cold personality, it’s not like I treated my siblings warmly.
I only saw what was on the surface —
I never knelt down to make eye contact with my little brother and truly look at him.

Ah, the person that I am.

Suddenly, my brother said,
"We probably won’t have many more trips together like this."

Earlier, at the end of February, we had visited our younger sister’s home in LA to see our parents together.
Recalling that time, he said,
"That was really nice..." trailing off at the end.
His voice was tinged with emotion.

Late that February night, after arriving at LA Airport,
we roamed the outskirts looking for a place to have a drink after dropping our luggage at the hotel.
In the end, failing to find a suitable place,
we simply filled our hunger with McDonald's burgers in the hotel room
and drank some beers we bought from a convenience store.

Even such a trivial event must have been precious to my brother.
The kind of bond where even nothing at all becomes a treasured memory —
Ah, that is family.

My plain and simple brother suddenly started to feel so dear to me.
Our trips together were only possible because our parents were still alive.
After this journey to say our final goodbyes to our father,
would we ever be able to travel together like this again?

Last, last, last —
I have reached the age where the word "last" has begun to sound unbearably sorrowful.

When I first heard about my father's critical condition,
I had remained relatively calm,
but when my brother said those words,
a sharp, dry sorrow suddenly surged into my heart.

For the first time,
the reality of my father's death began to sink in.

It felt like the sound of waves crashing against a dark night sea,
or the cold, sharp scent of autumn night flowers.

Finally, the fact that the being called "Father"
was vanishing from this world
hit me like the late autumn wind brushing against my skin.

Father is like an umbrella —
an existence that shields me from the rain called death.
At times, some raindrops may have splashed onto me,
but thanks to the umbrella, I was never fully drenched.

Though I had sent my grandparents off to the other world before,
I was still young then, in the springtime of life.
I was sad, yes, but I didn't truly feel the weight of death.

From now on,
I must become the umbrella,
standing bare against the pouring rain.

Is this the loneliness an astronaut feels,
drifting alone through the vast, empty cosmos?

I suddenly felt a chill, as if I had been soaked by rain.

The plane flew onward,
through the depths of unfathomable darkness.