fourth year julia mun

Dear 할아버지,

I think it has been six years since we’ve last spoken. And now that number will continue to age with me. I never knew quite what to say to you, during the times I could visit. Even now, in the wrong language, I still am at a loss for words. You were gone so suddenly.

It was 2:00 PM on December 31st when we heard the news. What was I doing while we were oceans and hours apart? It felt like the final rope had snapped, and my body was on the verge of drifting away to sea.

By standard definitions, we were not close. But I still cared dearly for you, even if I did not say it. I felt guilty for feeling a sense of grief given what little was exchanged between us. This grief came quietly and unexpectedly, the same way you went. I tried to stop it from sinking into my bones as Mom went to Korea to say her final farewell to you, and I remained here in Georgia; but I could only resist for so much longer. I was scared to see what would happen if I opened myself to the full force of grief. Would I be swept away by the sheer force of it?

But that was not what happened. Instead, I was warmed by the memories that bubbled to the surface. I would open the door, your favorite Krispy Kreme doughnuts in hand, and sit in your living room, surrounded by pictures of our family. A few hours later, a feast would adorn your worn table and green chairs. Mom would chatter away, the static of the TV in the background. Sometimes my aunts would be there too, playing Go-Stop, and you would stamp out your cigarette, propping your leg up to eat and watch. I would sleep in a rickety bed that used to belong to my uncle during long weekends, knowing at least you were breathing in the room next door. That is how we existed.

And now all I have left of you are these scattered impressions, and at times, I find it hard to accept that it is enough to have these. I stil

l agonize that I have not only lost you, but also my final chance to make amends. It will constantly mark my life.

But do you know what Mom told me the other day? She said I laugh the same way as you do, with a hand over my mouth and crinkling eyes. It gives me a little hope that you are never really gone.

I started this letter to say goodbye to you, but instead I think it has allowed me to, in a way, mourn. I now realize, with my acceptance of grief, that you were, and always are, special to me. And it will remain that way, with every laugh.

해인

With Every Laugh