April 17, 2008

That was the day my grandmother died.

She lived a full life. There was always a sparkle in her eyes and a strength in her voice, even after a stroke that confined her to a wheelchair.

I felt sad about her passing but was I close to her? Not really.

I used to visit her and my other relatives in Seattle nearly every summer. Yet, I still didn’t get to really know her on a personal level.

There was a barrier between us. A language one. I was never even close to fluent in Korean when I was younger – I’m still not. My grandmother spoke to me in Korean and I would only understand the simple words and phrases. She would try to speak some English words to me for my comprehension. I never tried to learn Korean – even though I was a young girl who could’ve gone to 한글학교 (Korean school) and had a much more capable mind of learning a second language. I chose to be distant. I was stubborn and resistant to change. I was unwilling to get out of my comfort zone. I didn’t realize the importance of sparking a relationship with her.

Whenever I was back home in Austin, my mom made me call my grandmother once a week. I would dread each call because I always ended up uncomfortable. Plus, the calls were short and the conversations were identical each week.

In English, I would always say I was on the computer.

I would always say if I was either upstairs or downstairs.

I would always answer questions with a simple “네” (“Yes”).

Then the call would end and I wouldn’t think anything about it until the next week.

There were many phone calls but they were so brief that none made a big imprint on my mind. Those little memories were swept away by Time. I don’t even remember how her voice sounds like anymore.

– – – – –

This summer I went to Seattle again and I visited her and my grandfather’s grave a couple times. As I grew older, I became more regretful of not getting to know my grandparents enough – specifically my grandmother. I want to go back in time and spend more time with her in her large garden. Or talk with her about her paintings. Or bond together more over caring for her betta fish. I want to be able to perform to her with my violin. I want to be able to explain to her my love of writing. I just found out this summer that my grandmother wanted to write literature when she was younger. I wish I had known that earlier. I have a lot of wishes that are too late to be granted. Time made me forget. Now it makes me regret.

– – – – –

So when I first visit the grave, I bow my head and pray for her and my grandfather. I pray about my regrets. The urge to cry tugs inside of me. My eyes are shut and my hands are clasped together. I’m aching for a solution.

The second time, my sentiments are the same.

The third time, my mom calls out to me before I reach the grave, “There’s a feather!” I’m surprised because most of the day before I was looking for a feather for a school summer project.

I realized that they are looking out for me. I realized that they know how I felt regretful. I realized that they know how I feel right now: Grateful.