10. Letter to Bandal

To the Darkest Yet Brightest You

Annyeong, Bandal.

I still say hi to you first. A word that feels never enough, no matter how many times I say it. I want to ask if you’re doing well. If you’re playing happily beyond the rainbow bridge, if you’ve found new and kind companions after leaving us. If you’re not lonely, if you’re not in pain... I’m always wondering about your news. Perhaps all these questions must feel tiresome to you. You might even stick your tongue out and say, “Doesn’t she ever get tired?” But forgive me, I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired. Until I see you again, I will endlessly think of you, worry for you, miss you, and long to hold you.

Meeting you was, I believe, the greatest fortune that ever came to our family; something that may never happen again. They say fate and connection are threads woven across even past lives. Sometimes I wonder. Did we meet you in this life because we lived kindly in the one before? Of course, our first meeting was clumsy. You and us both were new to each other, often frustrated in silence. How many stories you must have wanted to tell us, without words. Did you ever resent us? Did you ever dislike us? If there are misunderstandings left unresolved, let’s talk about them when we meet again. By then, you and we will both have a gentler, fuller language to share.

You know, I’ve always been someone deeply afraid of death and parting. I don’t know when it began, or why. When I was young, whenever I read a book or watched a drama where someone died, I couldn’t sleep that night. What if that dying person were my family, my friends? What if I were left all alone in this world? I lived under a constant weight of fear. And yet, somehow, I ended up living abroad on my own from an early age, and now I work in a profession where I face death every day. Death has never been far from me. I knew, too, that my farewell with you would come sooner than others. I tried to prepare my heart, but when the reality came—last winter, so unbearably painful and sorrowful—it still broke me open. The regret of not being there with you in your final moments was indescribable, and it will never be filled until I see you again. Yet I know you would not want me to sink into despair. So I try, every day, to live on with courage. To live with kindness, to be someone who helps, even just a little, in this world full of hatred and war. And somehow, death no longer frightens me. Perhaps because it is where you are.

Still, the fact that I could stay in Korea for two months during your final year was a gift beyond measure. We travelled so much together then—to mountains, to seas, to anywhere. We spent more time together in those two months than perhaps in all the years before. You, who had begun to struggle with car rides, still endured the discomfort just to be with us, and did your best to enjoy those days. Until your very last day, you went for a walk. You hated stepping on wet ground, but loved the scent after the rain. No matter the cold or the heat, you loved the shifting fragrances of nature. You never overlooked fleeting moments the way we often do. You couldn’t hide what you loved. You were always honest. Our beloved Bandal. I loved you so deeply, I love you still, and I always will.

I don’t have children yet, but through you I learned something of what our parents must feel. To wish wholeheartedly for another being’s happiness and health, beyond your own. Without you, I doubt I could ever have known that feeling. The willingness to give away half your time, or all of it, if it could ease the other’s suffering. The countless nights of prayer, asking God to pass my fortune on to you instead. The decision to give up what was mine, to hand it all to you. Through you, I learned that this. This was love.

Bandal, do you remember what I said at your funeral? I told you not to forget my name. That if you got lost there, where no one you knew was around, you could say my name to find someone who knew me. But I take those words back now. You can forget me. If you are happy where you are, I ask for nothing more. I will remember you. That will be enough. So I hope you are living there without restraint, thinking only of yourself, with no need to care for anyone else. Here, I’ll take care of what remains. Every patient I care for—if they ever meet you there—they will treat you kindly, because I treated them kindly here. You don’t need to carry any worries, any burdens. Leave them all here. I’ll hold them for you.

I don’t know if I was a good person to you. I’ve always been clumsy, in so many ways. I’ll cherish everything you taught me, and live it well. When we meet again, I promise to find you as someone you can be proud of.

Until then, I’ll keep wishing, with all my heart, for your peace and annyeong.