I was downstairs at my parents house with my grandparents witnessing a familiar scene. My grandfather poured himself a “coffee” which consists of a sprinkle of instant coffee powder and a spoonful of powdered creamer. My grandmother was heating up the doenjang-jjigae, and suddenly I got scared. I don’t know if I can ever let this scene go, but I feel it. Loss hangs in the air like a ball about to drop. Every moment I spend with my grandfather feels like a memory that slips into the past before I can even experience it, or understand its quality. It might not be helpful to grieve before it is time, but I can’t help but want to get in front of it and try to rearrange words on a page to understand something that always escapes them.
He fell into the lake months ago when my dog was still alive. I only heard the story through my grandmother's account as is often the case. They were at the park and she turned around for only a moment, back facing the lake, and when she turned back she saw my dog, but not my grandfather. Then there he was drenched soaking wet, stumbling to get out of the water, foot slipped on the algae journeying up the rocks front. “He hasn’t really been able to walk the same since,” she said when he left the room to go lay down. “Getting old sucks,” she added, except she pronounces the e like an a, like sacks.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to we are in a room to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.