5. Your Spring, My Winter
Carrying Grief in a Season of Joy
To be honest, these days, I find it hard to be genuinely happy for others. Weddings, promotions, pregnancies, new homes—each announcement seems to glimmer brightly, yet when I say "Congratulations," there's a quiet heaviness pressing against my chest. Of course, I know their happiness has nothing to do with my grief. But still, I’ve grown cautious of my own reactions. There’s a strange discomfort in offering words that my heart doesn’t fully follow. And then comes the guilt—for being so conscious of my own hollowness in someone else’s moment of joy.
Not long ago, several of my high school friends celebrated grand weddings. They looked radiant in their expensive wedding dresses, smiling in Instagram stories. But I scrolled past them quickly, pretending not to see. A few seconds later, I went back and tapped a hesitant heart. Then I typed, “Congratulations.” Just one word. And even that felt too difficult. Why did such a small gesture carry so much weight? I felt ashamed of myself. Conversely, when another friend confided in me about a failed promotion, I felt a dark flicker of relief. I hate to admit it, but it was there. I wasn’t the only one stuck. Their misfortune made me feel less alone. And I hated that, too.
Since Bandal left, my days have taken on a different hue. The changing of the seasons, once mundane, now feels like a marker of how long I’ve missed her. I’ve grown used to hiding sorrow behind a smile. That, too, brings its own kind of self-loathing. I learned to appear okay, to laugh and carry on, even when joy felt far away. At celebrations, I stood among friends while quietly stepping back in spirit. Thinking positively—something that was never easy for me—has now become nearly impossible. I thought aging and experience would bring resilience. But grief knocked me right back to the beginning.
Time with Bandal was always joyful—except for the surgeries she bravely endured: one for mammary tumors, another for her teeth. No matter how long it had been since I last saw her, she always greeted me the same way—tail wagging, eyes sparkling. Though her excitement grew quieter with age, she’d still nestle between my legs at night, pressing her warmth into mine. She gave not just love but laughter to our entire family. Because of her, we called each other more often, checked in more. One year before she passed, we took a family trip—just the five of us: my parents, my sister, Bandal, and me. It was January, snow falling thick and soft. We chose a cottage not too far away, since Bandal had begun to find car rides tiring. The house sat at the edge of a quiet village, with a small BBQ space outside and a kotatsu inside topped with a cozy blanket. That night, wrapped in the calm of falling snow and warm light, we were a picture of peace. Bandal curled up on the soft kotatsu blanket, refusing, as always, to sit on the bare floor. That moment—our family gathered around, music playing, laughter spilling—has become one of my most cherished memories. Later, we grilled meat, toasted marshmallows by a fire. We took turns tucking Bandal into our padded jackets so she wouldn’t catch the chill or be startled by sparks. If peace were a landscape, it would have looked like that.
A small detail, but a telling one: Bandal never sat on the floor. At cafés, she’d wait until someone laid down a coat or handkerchief—often my uncle’s. She knew her place—soft, warm, safe. She was smart that way. Precise. Regal.
The first time I returned to my parents’ home after she passed, I didn’t cry. Thankfully, they had kept her urn for me, waiting until I came back. In Korean shamanic belief, it’s said you shouldn’t keep a pet’s remains in the house. But there she was—beside the TV where she always lay, her urn beside a portrait I had drawn. It felt strangely normal, as if nothing had changed. I wrapped myself in the blanket we used to share and held her urn for days, hoping she might visit me in a dream. She never did. A few days before Lunar New Year, my sister and brother-in-law came over. We buried her then. My brother-in-law dug a small, careful spot. My sister, usually composed, broke down sobbing. So did I. We all did.
Only once, long after, did Bandal visit me in a dream. I had just woken up in the dream, and she nudged my hand gently. I cried, asking, “Weren’t you gone?” She said nothing. Just pressed her head deeper into my palm. Now when I return home, her urn isn’t there either. Sometimes I imagine what I would say if I saw her again. Would I know where to start? Probably, I wouldn’t speak at all. I’d just hold her—the little back streaked with white, the warmth I still remember. I’d want to ask: Were you okay? Were you in pain? Were you lonely? But more than anything, I’d want to say this.
"I love you."
There are things I still haven’t told her—how much warmth she gave, how deeply she changed me. She’s gone beyond my reach, but I keep talking to her anyway. Thank you. I’m sorry. And—most of all—I love you so, so much.
And though I know it’s selfish, I still hope next time, please come back as our family’s youngest child again.