I wake up to conversations dancing to the beat of metal chopsticks and spoons scraping against metal bowls. Around round table, adults are sitting down to have breakfast of rice and soup.
Big and hearty laughters continue to escape his mouth. Quiet smiles spread all around him, like small ripple across the water’s surface, after skipping rocks.
He is the rock. She is the waves. Happiness abounds, and my heart is full. Dad and mom, in one space, a rare memory.
I am the skip, the bounce in their steps.
It must be August. Arms bare, no one in a hurry. Grandparents are still around, meaning they are not busy planting, tilling or harvesting rice. It is also a Saturday. I still have half-day of school.
I like what I am seeing, this flurry of activities, and not the usual quiet. I stop the observation to speak up.
“I need to bring a die to school.” I say to no one in particular.
“Why didn’t you ask yesterday?”
“..”
He gets up to go outside. Grabbing a piece of cardboard, brown tape and pair of scissors, he sits in front of me. He doesn’t use a ruler or pencil to draw lines. He folds the hard papers, makes few cuts, few more folding. He applies tape on all edges. On each side, with a black marker, he writes 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6.
“Here you go.” He hands me the giant cardboard die the size of my two fists and walks back to have breakfast.
I look down, amazed and disappointed at once. I want the standard die. A small and weighted one with white plastic surface with black dots. What is this? Why doesn’t he glue paper on the sides to hide the shiny tape surface, and draw in the pretty dots? I want to ask him, but I don’t.
How do I feel? Mostly awe. Wanting to fit in and not. A feeble effort, when no one else has a non-Korean name at school. And no one else’s Dad lives in America.
Fast forward six years.
We now live in this big house belonging to his sister. In the kitchen, I am going to pack my own lunch today. A bag of loaf in plastic bag, tied with a metal twist. With my left hand, I grab the bag, using my right hand to untwist. Removing two slices of white bread, I place them next to each other. Where is that ketchup bottle, that I love so much? Squeezing the belly to release the soft red paste. Splat, a bit of air escapes. Sound breaks the stillness of the morning.
I apply the paste evenly like lipstick on both surfaces. I smack them against each other, letting them kiss, aligning in perfect embrace. With a silver knife, I cut diagonally, dissecting the square into two isosceles triangles. A proud moment of yay. I don’t want to figure out what I’m eating at the cafeteria today, my attempt to avoid pungent smells and textures of American food that is as unfamiliar as the language.
He walks in. “What is this? You don’t put ketchup in sandwiches” Smelling the acid and sweet aroma of ketchup. He lifts the sandwich with two fingers, tosses it into the black trash can before walking away.
One year later.
I wake up to a pink watch on my left wrist, with a small white face. Where did this come from? I love it. I love watches. He came in while I was sleeping. How do I feel? Happy. Do I say thanks, I don’t think so. I’ve been suffering from canker sores in my mouth, brought on by stress.
Another year later.
I need help with my homework. Advanced math. He flips through the textbook, creates his own theorem, and helps me solve it.
As I flip through memories of him, I am surprised to have so many, though I wish there were more. There are more pieces of him, than there are pieces of me.
Two years later.
First day of university. There is a mix-up. I don’t get my sea bag, and I spend the week in grey sweats and white t-shirt. Sticking out like sore thumb. Everyone else has uniform except me. Before leaving for the second summer training with the Army, I had applied for scholarship and had the check sent to the house. He had taken it, and I don’t have anything to wear. Until his sister, my aunt comes to pay for my uniform, helping me fit in. How can he do this to me?
Two more years later.
I am visiting him in Seattle. He drives me to the airport to go back to school. My face scrunch. I need help. I don’t have any money. He grabs all the cash out of his wallet and places them on my hands. His face is scrunched up, like a wrinkle that hasn’t been ironed, after being through the wash of life that’s been tough on him.
Twenty years later.
Phone rings, from across the Atlantic, from far away. Except, I am the one that is far away. “Appa passed away. He had a heart attack” It is middle of workday in September. With this memory, eyes water and tears drop. Practicality sets in. Planning handovers, setting up expectations. Calling my boss to tell what happened. “I’m catching the next flight out tomorrow.”
All the major roles are taken, in this major production of funeral. It’s been a while since we’ve all gathered. His sisters, their husbands, their children. Aunts, uncles, and male cousins. Sisters and brother are there. I am the last to arrive.
This house, I bought three years ago for him to live in. When he was looking at two story houses, I told him. “Please buy a house where you can bury your bones in.”
This house where you played your saxophone, where I last came to spend the four-day Thanksgiving with you, your wife, your small white dog, brother, sisters, and your two granddaughters.
I enter the full house, everyone dressed in black.
“Do you want to go for a walk?”
No.
“Do you want to hear me play the saxophone?”
OK. As he plays, I ask him to stop, finding the sound too loud to my sensitive ears. He’s playing “Over the Rainbow”, a song I mentioned when he asked what he could learn to play.
That was only two years ago, but a distant memory nonetheless.
I walk into the garage. He had done so much work into this house. Adding cabinets, putting a third bathroom for brother, so he feels more comfortable when he visits.
On his work bench, I find a hard hat with a blue GE logo on it. It is 2019. I left GE in 2008. How and where did he get my hardhat?
It is the hardhat I wore for six years while working as an engineer building and maintaining power plants around the world. He was proud of me beyond my wildest dreams. He said I was the most like him. At the time, infuriated. Looking back, he was right. An engineer, problem solver. A go getter and world traveler. In his eyes, I could do no wrong. A daughter of pure pride and bragging rights.
What is love? Why do we only see it when they are gone?
Except love never goes away. It lives inside of me. Inside of you, as you read these words. But I can’t help but continue to shed these silent tears in appreciation and longing. To have the opportunity to say thank you for staying. Thank you for doing the impossible. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for not giving up, when walking away was the easy way out.
Thank you for all the regrets, so that I can live on with love without more remorse. For teaching me about faults that create the distance between us. And giving me life and opportunities to help fill the gaps. For giving me my siblings and extended family members that keep me in remembrance of our heritage. Where I come from. Where you come from. Your story and mine, a typical Korean Immigrant. Fruits of the same tree. I am a fruit of your tree.
This love letter can go on and on. An endless celebration of life.
What do you get when you connect three dots? A triangle, two pieces of bread cut in half. A roll of a die. A memory of a father from far away, a long time ago, close to my heart.
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