gi-il (忌日, 기일)

It's been sixteen years since Mom passed away. I turned 40 the year Mom was diagnosed with the brain cancer that would kill her nine months later; I turned 56 last August, and despite the passage of more than a decade and a half, there are still moments when Mom's death seems to have happened only yesterday. Looking back at old photos of Mom, both healthy and sick, can trigger the tears. Otherwise, enough time has passed that I'm mostly back to living my life, currently between jobs while living in obscurity in southeast Seoul. The years grind on; the pain has faded somewhat, but it's never far beneath the surface.

I wonder what Mom would think of her sons now. My brother Sean is married and living as a professional musician in the Chicago suburbs. My brother David has risen in the ranks of the PR company that he's worked for for well over a decade, working as a jack-of-all-trades (and a manager) in the creative department. He moved to New Mexico a couple years back and works remotely. As of December 2020, I paid off all my scholastic debt; since then, I've walked across large parts of mainland South Korea seven times (plus once around Jeju Island and a spur of the Nakdong River).

While part of me would like to believe Mom's still there, watching over me somehow, I don't know what to believe on that point. I see her presence in the cosmos flowers that line the trails I've walked; Mom loved cosmos flowers. But flowers are only a representation of Mom—they're not Mom herself. What I wouldn't give to be able to talk to her again, to hug her, to listen to her laugh. Her absence still hurts.

Goodbye, Mom—sixteen years gone. I love you.

Mom's bare hand in my gloved hand

Sean, Mom, and me

Mom and David at Reagan National Airport

Well, wherever she might be, I may be joining her soon. That's a comfort.