To Say Goodbye

It is one day before I leave for Korea, actually 15 hours and 30 minutes to be exact, and it is now crunch time.

I have spent the last week preparing what I need to go. All my clothes are ready to pack, all medications in a bag, all shoes stuffed with socks and other miscellaneous items. All that is left are the little things. In the end though, it’s the little things that are the big things—and the hardest to do.

I start the morning off calling my bank to let them know I’m leaving the country and please for the love of God, do not cancel my card, I can’t handle that again. I send off any remaining papers to Texas Tech and let my advisors know what’s going on and what they will receive. I buy the remaining gifts and trinkets for friends I will meet in Korea, and cross out others like buying deodorant and packing a towel. These are important, but only little things.

Next comes the most important thing—calling my grandfather. It seems late when I call him even though the sun is high in the sky. I am wondering why I put this off to last. When he answers the phone, he doesn’t recognize my voice. It takes me a little bit, making sure my voice is loud and slow, to let him know who I am. Eventually he recognizes me and asks how I am. I use my smiling, salesman voice to tell him about my chores for the day, and how wonderful everything is, but on the outside I am thankful that he cannot see me. My eyes are watering and I am biting my lip, for I hear how sick he is and realize that it might be the last time I talk to him. I try to drag out my time, listening to his voice and think of times where he was spry and I would sit on his lap, laughing at the mooning Santa Clause. I think of burning wood in the fireplace, and his warm smile as he would pull me into his arms. The phone call goes all too fast, exhaustion clear in his voice. I wish him goodbye, say how much I love him, and that I can’t wait to see him when I return. He mumbles, saying he’s holding on and hopes he will see me in December, just in time for Christmas. When he finally hangs up the phone, I look at the time and see that the call has lasted only five minutes—five minutes too fast—five minutes too short. I find myself in tears while I realize that a line that had been on my checklist now needs to be crossed off. It was just a bullet, but my hand trembles as my pen runs through the words. Task done. Completed. It was so quick to do. Why?

As I cross out the last item, I look at my mom. We are sitting at lunch where I am enjoying the last salad that I will have in months. She smiles at me and I smile at her. I turn over my checklist and write on the back, “엄마, 사랑해요,” –“Mother, I love you.” As I hand he the card and tell her the meaning in Korean, she cries, grabbing my hand. I can no longer hold back my tears and cry with her, tightly grasp the hand that has held mine for so long.

“Write one for your father,” she says, choked up.

“Ok,” I reply, giving her hand one last squeeze.

I leave for Korea in one day—15 hours and 30 minutes to be exact. I have checked everything off my checklist and am ready to go, yet there are tears in my eyes.