A Letter Never Sent 8

A Letter Never Sent 8

 

For two years, my writings were featured in the monthly publication "You Are So Precious" in Korea. The first article I wrote was titled "While Shoveling Snow," and it appeared in the January 2010 issue. Since I thought of it as a letter to my father, and because it was my first article, I can clearly remember it, even though my memory is usually quite poor.

Only after I became a father myself did I finally start to grasp a little of the feelings my father must have had, feelings that I couldn't understand before. The article was about my feelings of gratitude, apology, and love toward my father, but in the end, it became an "unsent letter" to him. Due to my laziness and lack of attention, I delayed it until I faced my father's passing.

Ah, me. As a son, isn't this what disobedience is? Failing to express what should have been expressed, and to give what should have been given, whether it's affection or material things. Allowing time to slip by without doing so. My father's breathing was getting weaker and more labored.

 

 

While Shoveling Snow

 

Yesterday, the sky sank low, and as expected, by late afternoon, snow began to fall. The snow continued to fall through the night and well into the morning. When I got up, opened the curtains, and looked outside, it was still snowing. The world outside, covered in snow, seemed like something out of a fairy tale, and it was beautifully even.

However, after immigrating to the United States, and especially after moving to the suburbs, snow has become more of a nuisance than a romantic sight. My workplace is 50 km away in Brooklyn, and the drive there and back can be painfully slow. The traffic is slow and dense, and sometimes I end up listening to the same song from my CD three times because I can't even change it.

The responsibility of clearing the snow from our driveway adds more weight, especially as the thickness of the snow increases. Since it was a Sunday and I didn't have to go to work, I was able to leisurely look out at the falling snow. My thoughts naturally drifted back in time.

About 30 years ago, our house had a coal boiler, and it was my father who had to handle all the tasks—shoveling coal and clearing ash. Since the boiler was outside, on snowy or icy mornings, my father would go out before dawn, breathing in the gas from the coal as he worked. His figure became part of the snow-covered landscape outside the window. He was hunched over, working alone in the cold. I, on the other hand, was probably lying comfortably inside, enjoying the warmth of the ondol (heated floor).

I never once thought about how I could stay warm all winter while my father worked outside in the cold. I was the kind of son who took it all for granted, and my father was the one who was supposed to do all that work.

A few years ago, on a January Sunday morning, just like today, it snowed heavily. The snow piled up to nearly knee-high. At first, I thought I wouldn't be able to clear it by myself, but I was somewhat reassured when I saw my eldest son, then in high school, preparing to help. He had dressed warmly, with gloves and a hat, and even had a snow shovel ready.

He looked so much like a soldier ready for battle with his shovel slung over his shoulder. I felt proud and grateful as I watched him get ready to help. This was exactly what people mean when they say, "raising children is worth it."

However, that brief moment of happiness was shattered when I realized that my son had already made plans with his friends to clear snow at another house. Watching his back as he left, I felt a sense of disappointment and the weight of responsibility.

I had to clear the driveway by myself, and even though it seemed melodramatic, there was a sense of solemnity in the task. I encouraged myself, saying, "I can do it. I'll get it done..." and began shoveling the snow.

About 30 years ago, my father was doing the same thing, waking up early in the cold, breathing in coal gas, and shoveling snow. Even when he was sick, he kept doing it without a word, as though it were his destiny, or even a form of faith.

As I watched my son leave, rushing off to meet his friends, I thought about my father shoveling coal in the cold. I understood a little bit of his heart now. When he was sick, wouldn't he have wanted my eldest son, who was the same age I was back then, to help him with the coal? But my father never complained.

Until I graduated from college, I had never once shoveled coal myself. After I went to the military and immigrated, only after having children did I finally start to understand a little of my father's heart.

By the time I finished clearing the snow, I was drenched in sweat, and it was almost time for lunch. My eldest son returned proudly, holding the $50 he earned from shoveling snow like a war prize.

Today, as snow falls, it seems to bridge the gap between my heart and my father's heart. And about 30 years from now, the snow will fall equally, connecting my heart to my eldest son's.