Chapter 107

“Here it is. These are the things the Director entrusted before passing.”

It seems the newly appointed Director has stepped away. Instead, I was welcomed by a young female teacher whom I did not know. Seeing her looking younger than me, she probably joined after I became independent.

Whether it was fortunate or unfortunate, the House of Love had changed so much that I could hardly feel nostalgia. The facilities and the people I knew were no longer there. The emotions I felt from that realization were too sticky to call longing, too refreshing to call regret, and somehow bitter to call relief.

“Thank you.”

“There are still a few things the Director left before leaving. There are some items to be given to whoever comes… It’s a shame someone like him had to leave so soon.”

The woman gazed into the distance with sad eyes. Not knowing how to offer comfort, I remained silent. I, too, was someone in need of solace. Despite sharing the same wounds, I lacked the strength to soothe each other.

After exchanging greetings, I left with what I had received.

I took Hwa-won, who had been waiting, outside the House of Love. I looked up at the building once more. It hadn’t been this big when I left; the building was the same, but I had shrunk too much.

In fact, it was said that it wouldn’t be called the House of Love anymore. The new Director wants to change the name, thinking it’s too outdated and common. It seems people would look at it with prejudice.

I didn’t know what name would be chosen to replace it, but it was something I didn’t particularly want to know. Even though it would be a name unrelated to me now.

Hwa-won didn’t ask what I had received. Even if he had asked, I wouldn’t have been able to answer. What I had received was a small but quite heavy paper box that fit snugly in my arms. I hadn’t opened it yet.

I continued walking. As I took in the familiar streets, I noticed unfamiliar buildings that stood out, unlike earlier. I kept walking. The street that used to be nothing special now had franchise fast-food joints and cafes. The box was heavy, making it difficult to carry.

I looked back. Hwa-won was walking slowly behind me, maintaining a distance. He was probably much faster than me in a normal walk, but he was intentionally moving slowly out of consideration, which made me feel an indescribable emotion.

I stopped to wait for Hwa-won.

He approached without speaking first. So, I spoke first.

“Where is this place?”

“I don’t know.”

A foolish question.

We walked back the way we came. Since lunch had already ended, there wasn’t a reason to stop by a restaurant or anything, nor did I have any other business to take care of. We took the same amount of time to walk back to the car. Hwa-won didn’t speak first again, not even offering to carry the box.

When we reached the car, I opened my mouth first.

“It’s a box.”

“I can tell just by looking.”

“It’s a bit heavy. I haven’t looked inside yet. Whatever’s inside is probably related to my… mother.”

I still had no idea what was in the heavy box.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the box with trembling hands.

“This is…?”

“A book?”

Inside the box were several books and a single envelope. We pulled out the envelope first and glanced at the titles of the books.

There was no need to search for anything about the books. I recognized all of them. Familiar names were there—Cheon Sang-byeong, Kim So-wol, Baek Seok, Yun Dong-ju, Miyazawa Kenji, Rimbaud, Rilke, T.S. Eliot, Baudelaire, etc.

They were all poetry collections. They weren’t new books. They were at least over 30 years old, and all showed signs of being read many times. Inside, there was no “Seol-guk” by Kawabata Yasunari.

The box contained well over ten poetry books. No wonder it was so heavy. While each individual book wasn’t too heavy, having more than ten made a difference.

I took my hands off the books and looked at the envelope. The envelope was very old and sealed. I couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t seem that the Director had opened it.

Inside was a small piece of paper that had been folded several times—once horizontally, once vertically, again horizontally, and once more vertically. It was folded so tightly that it seemed unnecessary to be put into such an envelope; the paper was old stationery.

At this point, I felt like I could hardly breathe. It felt as if I were the only one in this world, in this car.

I began to read the letter.

It did not have a title addressing anyone. It went straight into the body.

[

My mother passed away when she was seventeen.

The weight of sorrow carries 17 years of time.

For you, it carries 5 years.

It was lighter than 17.

It may not be light to you,

But I hope it is not heavy.

I won’t apologize.

It would be better that way.

Please do not forgive me.

Such things did not exist in our single room.

I was nothing to you.

Leave it as it is.

P.S. I leave behind the poetry books I read to you.

Looking back, it seems you didn’t particularly like them.

]

~

I thought for a very, very long time.

What kind of reaction should I have here? What should I say? What thoughts? What monologue? What feelings should I have, and what emotions should I feel? Should I cry? Should I curse? Should I blame? Should I feel pain?

They say they hope my 5 years of memories are not heavy.

It was heavy.

They said not to forgive.

I don’t know.

A single room? What existed there? Or what was absent?

She told me she was nothing to me, to leave her as such.

I couldn’t do that. I just couldn’t.

She said she read me poetry.

That was when I was still young.

I have no memory of it.

Really, even when I think to the point of a headache, I can’t remember.

Did you like poetry?

I never thought poetry was good even once in my life.

The Director said that if I couldn’t bear to forgive my mother and couldn’t forget her, I should go back.

And what I received was this.

I remembered the words that it would be better than not knowing. This unfilial son that I am dare to refute that notion far too early. No, I should not have known.

I didn’t want to know.

If the content of this letter had been read, the Director wouldn’t have left this letter for me. The reason for letting me know about the existence of this letter was surely not to torment me.

It could be a clue, or perhaps it could be a story that might compel me to forgive my mother.

Or it could be a story that I could never forgive her.

I don’t know how to express myself.

The speaker of this letter does not apologize. They do not make excuses. They mention no circumstances or tragedies. They state no cause, effect, reason, or trigger.

I cannot forgive the speaker of this letter. Because they provide no clue that would allow it.

They tell me to hate them as they are. Saying they have no value, that they are nothing, they urge me to kill myself, to leave it as it is. It was blasphemy. It was telling me to carry the burden of sacrilege.

I was afraid to interpret the meaning of that which would be better.

Are you saying it would be better if I couldn’t fully hate you, that it would be better for me to purely hate you?

Should I suffer throughout my life with pain and hate for you, or do you wish that I kill you and erase you completely from my being? Did you want that?

Did you want me to spit on you instead of missing you? Did you wish for me to not forgive you and to insult you instead?

Did you want to bear your own sin and quietly perish amidst justified hatred and rightful anger?

No, what you bore was not your own sin. What you bore was a cradle. A cradle without an owner. A cradle without a child.

A grave.

Whom did you lay to rest there now?

You are so terribly selfish. You comfortably severed me alone. It’s horrifying. I have now been robbed of the right to forgive you. You could have at least let me shed tears alone without this letter.

Now I can only live my life hating you or killing you; those are all I can do. Are you happy now? Are you living happily after making me this way?

I hope so. Otherwise, it would mean that this abandoned life of mine had no meaning.

I think I expected a little of that.

I hoped so.

I was frightened, too.

Perhaps, seeing this letter, I might be able to forgive you.

A futile desire that perhaps I might find some clue.

The fear of all that being denied.

You are indeed a capable questioner. You’ve marked through all my answers.

It’s truly difficult. I cannot forgive you, and I cannot find you.

And my mother has affirmed everything about me.

Why,

Why didn’t you just say, simply, comfortably, that you were sorry?

Didn’t you make excuses that you couldn’t help it?

Didn’t you have situations or events that led to such a lovely phrase?

Was it really so hard to say the commonplace apology of “I was wrong, I’m sorry”?

Could you not have sought forgiveness like some trite melodrama?

You wished for the weight of 5 years not to be heavy on me.

But forcing a child of 5 years to endure the weight of that time is an extremely cruel act. The weight that has piled up over my life has been far too heavy.

Of course, you probably didn’t intend it that way, but,

What if, just what if,

If you had said you were sorry and asked for my forgiveness, maybe then…

…I might have forgiven you.

You said you read me poetry. Poetry to a 5-year-old? What an excellent parenting method. Did you read me “The Wasteland”?

But the memory I have left is not of your poetry, but of your curses.

What tone, what expression, what heart did you read to me with?

I can’t remember. Damn it, I can’t remember anything.

The words of yours that remain in my memory were always mixed with anger, accompanied by a scowling face, and the sentiment seemed sorrowful. Was I such a sorrowful existence to you? Was I your tragedy?

I didn’t want to think this, I didn’t want to say this. I don’t want this.

But,

But why, if that was the case…

Why didn’t you just abort me instead?

Why did you give birth to me?

You once told me that I should have been aborted. Perhaps you didn’t tell it to me at all.

For the first time, I empathize with those words.

You should have noticed it a bit earlier.

You should have aborted me.

I should never have been born.

What were you thinking while writing this letter?

Even if I may seem like this, I do write fairly well myself. Though I never liked poetry, I studied it a bit and even tried my hand at criticism. Since you marked through all my answers, it would only be fair for me to add a word or two to your letter.

This is not a letter.

This is not a letter to me.

This is just,

A horribly written poem that you sent to yourself.