The second one was my father's brother.
It doesn't hit me until I recognize his face from afar. His body is stiff.
I see the men wrap the body. Their hands are well experienced and fast. They have done this many times before.
Tightly they bind my uncle in white paper and cloth.
We slowly walk around for a final look. Where did his soul go? He is just an emptied shell. His nostrils are stuffed with white cotton like two bright circles. I see his uneven whiskers, he hadn't shaved in awhile.
My eyes trace the familiar outline of my own father's features in the still expression.
Then they wrap the face with white paper. The men tugged hard on the twine to make it tight. His face is gone now.
Standing there, sitting there, then singing hymns. Listening to the goodbye poem written by my dad without registering.
I sit in the middle of others who lost loved ones from before. My aunt, how did she feel when her husband died? My cousin, how did he feel staring at his father's unmoving body? And my other cousin, who lost her father last year. I hear,
three of my father's siblings have now passed away. All brothers.I had only met my uncle a handful of times, but I remember his mental illness and the way my dad looked after his older brother.
How do you deal with a cold body that used to house the very unique warmth and personality you've treasured for over 20, 30 years..
I picture me at the funeral of someone.. my sibling? My mom?
I feel a knot of fear as I recall my mom on the phone, telling me my dad's condition is worsening.
I think about the contrasting presence of both joy and deep sorrow at funerals. Happy they're on to a better place, hopefully.. and at pain for unsaid words and loss.
I also think about, who will I choose to love? Who will pass away first?
Now we are at the mountain. It's so cold. The men are so fast. They lower the two coffins with swift ease. Holy water, white petals, then dirt - we each throw them in differently. There's this one woman, she's the daughter of the other dead man. I cannot read her face.
In ten minutes the huge dirt pile is gone, and the men are raking it over. They are talking about how the grave with the bright, fake flowers belongs to a 12 year old. That morning the parents had unwrapped cheese bread and left it there for their child. I recognize the bread, it's sold at Family Mart.
There is no room. We're all standing on someone else's grave.
I turn my head at all the structured hills of crosses and plaques. There's no space, the old man says. It is freezing but he is in a blue T-shirt. He was here at the beginning of the construction of this burial mountain. Deaths will continue coming to take up land, he says while leaning on the shovel.
I think of how death creates holes and consumes space.
I am glad to go back into the car to get away from the cold.
I fall asleep.
We eat and are merry for dinner. A relative exclaims, It's a celebration of Uncle's departure for heaven. He went peacefully.
I peer at a 6 week old newborn baby. We are marveling at how small and soft her delicate toes are. I smile seeing her eyes open. Her mom mentions, she might not recognize life yet.
And at the end of tonight I decide to learn the game of baduk. A relative tells me, All three siblings who passed away were top in it. You should learn the game. It will help you sort out your life. Help you make wise decisions.
At home, I read on baduk...
Emphasizes importance of balancing levels of internal tension.I hear the sound of my aunt sleeping next to me.
And decide, it's time for me to rest too.
Take 2? Hahahha joohee's face
